Chapter III: Part 3

The young animals were now getting exhausted. The cubs, their tongues out, were giving signs of distress. Their only idea was to stop, lie down, bury their heads in their front paws and rest. But the old mother was undaunted. She turned around, faced the ship, rose on her hind legs and gazed steadily at us towering above her. Then, turning around like a flash, she lifted each grovelling cub with a jerk of her snout, cuffed its hind quarters hard with a swift tap of her front paw and launched both of them again ahead of her in full flight. This she repeated time and again. Her courage was so amazing that no one fired a shot.

Finally we reached a last pan of ice on the very edge of the floe. Further on was the open sea. Mother and cubs scrambled on that piece of ice a few yards in front of the steamer which had been put down to “dead slow”. The little cubs “were done”. They just lay on the ice and panted. The mother could have taken to the water—dived like a duck—made a bid for her life. But she remained beside her young, facing the ship squarely, silently, fearlessly. Her jaws were half open in a snarl. Now and then she would lift a front paw and cuff the air as if she wanted to show how hard she could hit our steel stern if ever our vessel touched her.

There was silence on board. Suddenly our skipper’s voice rang out: “Hard over at port,” while the telegraph rang, “Full speed ahead.” The same voice called out again. “Leave those bears alone, you sons of....”

As the ship swung over—gathered way and passed the pan of ice—three blasts of the steamer’s foghorn blared out in a salute! It was the old Newfoundland master. He was leaning over the side of his bridge, waving to the old she bear who still stood, undaunted, right over the bodies of her two little cubs.

Tale XL: An old Trader

Fifteen years or so ago, I knew an old trader, a Scotchman, who had then lived forty years in the far North. His only link with civilization was the supply ship which called at his Post, once a year, in summer.

In those days radios were unknown. The man was content with one mail a year. As soon as the vessel had left his station, he was entirely cut off from the rest of the world until the next summer.

He worked for a rival company and for several years I never had an occasion to meet him, although we had a trading station of our own a few miles down the coast.

In 1911, our steamer was passing his Post when we saw a whale boat, manned by four Eskimos, coming out to meet us. In the stern sat the old man. Knowing that our ship was the first in that year, we slowed down expecting that the trader was in some kind of trouble.

As soon as he got within hailing distance he stood up, put his hands to his mouth and shouted: “Good morning! Who won the fight?” For a few seconds we were so surprised that none of us could speak. Meanwhile, the small boat remained bobbing up and down on the swell; the old man still standing and looking up toward the bridge.

Suddenly it dawned upon the skipper that the old Scotchman was one year back in his news, and that he was inquiring about the famous “Jim Jeffries-Jack Johnson” fight which had taken place exactly thirteen months before!

Our ship being the first in, he could not wait until his own vessel arrived, bringing him a whole year’s collection of daily newspapers. He simply had to satisfy his craving for news of that fight over which he had pondered, alone, during twelve long months. “Jack Johnson won by a knock-out,” we all shouted down to him. He heard us the first time. Lifting his hand over his head as a sign of thanks, he sat down without a word and motioned the Esquimos to row back to shore.

Meanwhile our skipper telegraphed “Full speed ahead” and we proceeded on our way.

Tale XLI: Wolverine

The wolverine has an exceedingly bad reputation among all men, white or red, who make their living by trapping in the Far North. If one believed the stories of some of the older Indians, one would think that the animal had a superhuman intelligence added to a positive mania for destruction.

To look at, the Wolverine is not very formidable. I heard, one day, a white trapper describe him as an overgrown badger that could not grunt quite as well as a pig but could climb trees far more easily than a bear.

Discarding the exaggeration which generally goes with all tales concerning the animal, there is no doubt that the Wolverine is very cunning and is inclined to be mischevious as far as traps and supplies are concerned.

I know of one authentic case where an Indian had to change his trap lines; in fact, quit the country altogether and go elsewhere because of a Wolverine who had made up his mind to dodge his footsteps all winter and feed on his baits and game. That animal would follow the man’s trail, starting a few hours behind him. Each time he got to a trap he would find it, although the tell-tale signs had been brushed off the snow. He would then, through smell, locate the chain, dig it up, jerk it with his teeth, spring the trap and eat the bait.

For weeks the Indian tried to shoot that Wolverine, but failed. When the man, knowing through experience that he was followed, turned back suddenly in his footsteps or remained hidden on his own trail, the Wolverine, sensing the danger, would stop and vanish for the time being. As soon as the trapper proceeded on his way, the animal would follow and resume his mischief.

Once in Labrador, I had a cache raided by a Wolverine during the summer. We had left some grub, clothing and cooking utensils in a waterproof bag securely lashed to the branch of a tree. When we returned, the bag was gone. The Wolverine had managed to crawl down the branch and cut the rope. After that he had torn everything open, eaten every piece of food he could get his teeth in and destroyed or defiled all the clothing. But what really made us mad was the fact that he had carried away and hidden the tins of pork and beans and lard which he could not have opened anyway, however strong were his jaws.

The only thing which we recovered intact was a brand new kettle—and then we had to climb a tree for it. The Wolverine had carried it half way up a spruce and left it wedged between two branches.

Tale XLII: “Spot” ... Again

I have already spoken about that dog. I had him on my team six winters. He was the most human “Husky” I have ever known.

In the spring when the ice begins to cut all dogs’ feet, he would always be the first to ask for his moccasins. He would not sulk, go lame, whimper or run out of the trail. He would stop dead in his tracks, lie on his back, stretch and wave his four legs straight in the air and howl until each moccasin was fastened securely to each foot.

In camp at nights if he was not tied up, he would burrow in the snow until he was completely hidden, and remain there out of sight until the team was ready to leave. No amount of calling and coaxing would induce him to leave his hole, which was generally so well hidden that it was impossible to find it. But as soon as he felt the other six dogs in harness ready to go, he would burst out of the snow and slip on his own collar with a toss of his nose while he looked around anxiously to see if the driver was coming to fasten his girth.

Poor, dear, old Spot! He died in 1913, in harness. He was getting old and the last trip was too much for him. After a week of bitter suffering, he fell in the traces. We put him on the sleigh. His pride forbade him to be drawn by the team. He rolled off in the snow and tried to get back to his place in the lead. He was very weak but he still snarled defiance at the young dogs who were doing the work without him.

Little by little, even out of harness, he could not follow the pace. He fell back on the trail. All day he struggled behind us. That night he joined the camp two hours after dark. He refused his food but, heartbroken, insisted upon searching for his harness which had been put aside on the sleigh.

Early the next morning before anyone stirred in camp, my man shot him in his sleep. We could not leave him behind us to eat his heart out in the wilderness, then fall the prey to a roaming pack of timber wolves. Poor, dear, old Spot!

Tale XLIII: Homesick

“Scotty” was a little clerk in one of our most northern Indian trading stations. He had applied for a position with us in Inverness and had come over in steerage to Halifax. From there he had traveled by train to Montreal, then to Winnipeg, Prince Albert and Le Pas. Finally he had been transported by canoe five hundred miles to his new Post. He landed one afternoon in August and introduced himself to the trader.

I happened to be there at the time. His luggage consisted of a small hand bag, much the worse for the wear, and a large flat wooden box. He was very silent during the evening meal and left us immediately afterwards.

An hour or so later, just as night was falling, a weird scream smote our ears. It came from somewhere in the bush and sounded like the haunting wail of something inhuman. “God, a banshee!” murmured the trader, crossing himself. I thought of a strange night bird—a prowling wolf—a lonely Indian dog. Then it came again, this time louder. We left the shack and walked in the direction of the noise. Meanwhile the wail, after echoing faster and faster, had changed into one continuous screech.

Indians—men, women and children—were turning out of their tepees and running towards the sound. We finally reached a small clearing and halted in front of a large spruce tree. We knew instinctively that the thing—whatever it was—was there. It had ceased wailing a few seconds, and we were anxiously peering into the shadows. Suddenly something moved in front of us and we held our breath. Then a small figure, which had been crouching unseen at the foot of the tree, rose, and a savage burst of wild music rang out.

It was “Scotty”, marching out of the darkness, blowing a huge bagpipe clasped in his arms. His face was purple and his eyes were half closed. Round and round he marched, oblivious of everything, while the Indians, stupefied by such an instrument and such a noise, milled around like staring sheep and followed each one of his movements.

For a half hour we listened to the little man. Not once did he stop. His homesick soul was singing through those blood-curdling, shrieking pipes.

Late into the night, after turning in, we still heard him. Followed by the entire native population and surrounded by at least a hundred howling dogs, he was marching away from the Post, following the edge of the lake and playing “The Campbells are Coming”.

Tale XLIV: Gotehe

Last summer I happened to notice an Eskimo woman striving to stop a dog fight. There was nothing very unusual in the sight. Huskies, running loose in a camp, keep up a constant warfare and invariably pile on the top of any unlucky dog which has been pulled down by a stronger one.

What really attracted my attention was the way the woman undertook to save the life of the under dog. Instead of screaming shrilly and using a club of some sort to hit impartially at any head or back she could reach in the writhing, snarling knot of fighting animals, she was hopping around watching for a chance to grab a tail. Then, with a heave and a twist of her body, she would drag one dog out of the scrimmage and fling it over her shoulder, ten feet or so behind her. The unlucky animal generally landed on his head or back, which seemed to surprise and scare it far more than any kind of a blow.

Considering that a Husky weighs at least 75 pounds and that it took the woman only a few minutes to put an end to that dog fight, I could not help being duly impressed with the feat.

I pointed her out to our trader. Such was the way I met Gotehe, wife of Enekatcha, on the bleak shores of Enendeia Lake.

“Four months ago she would not have had the strength to separate two hard tacks,” was the man’s comment as she walked away. Scenting a story, I waited.

It appears that Gotehe, last February, was travelling with her husband somewhere north of where we were. One morning, when time came to break camp, she plodded on alone to make the trail. Such is the custom. Meanwhile, Enekatcha proceeded to ice the runners of the sleigh before harnessing the dogs.

It was blowing hard and snowing. When the man had travelled an hour he missed his wife’s tracks. Before he could find them again, a blizzard came down. He wandered aimlessly all day, vainly searching. Night came. The blizzard showed no signs of lifting. Enekatcha, believing that his wife had turned south—her back to the gale—and made for our station twenty miles away, went there. Nobody had seen her. The blizzard raged for nine days. Three times, search parties went out and came back without any news.

On the tenth day the weather cleared at dawn. At noon, Enekatcha found Gotehe a few miles from where he had missed her trail. She was squatting patiently behind the shelter of a rock, having “dug herself in” the snow.

When she had left camp nine days ago she had nothing with her but a pocket knife and a plug of tobacco. She had munched and swallowed the latter while she had used her knife to cut strips off her deerskin boots to chew. During that time she hadn’t had a fire. There was no wood to burn even if she had had matches.

“She was pretty weak,” added the trader. “So weak that she couldn’t cut in two the frozen fish which her husband handed her. The little hatchet was too heavy for her to lift. But she wasn’t even frost bitten. She was all right—just hungry. Three days at the post and she was off again with Enekatcha as if nothing had happened.”

Tale XLV: Pets in the Wilderness

I have met in the wilderness several white men whose hobby was to raise strange pets, either for their own pleasure or to add a little to what ever income they derived from the country they lived in. But old C... was the star of them all.

During all the years I have known him, I have never seen him once without some peculiar animal at his door step.

First it was a bear. The brute was full grown and tied to a tree by a chain. It allowed his master to stroke him but was dangerous to anyone else. It had made friends with a little Indian dog and used to sleep with the pup clasped between its front paws. After that, it was a family of skunks—a mother and five young ones. They were as tame as cats and roamed in and out of the shack at their own free will. It was a good thing that the neighbors were few and far between for, if the wood pussies did not pay the slightest attention to C..., on the other hand they resented bitterly the presence of any stranger on the premises.

Later on, my friend tried his hand at wild lynx. There had been a great migration of those animals that summer and he was able to lasso eighteen as they swam across the lakes and rivers in the neighborhood.

He put the whole lot in an old bunk house near his shack and used to feed them once a day on fish. It was a great sight. The old man would enter most unconcernedly while the eighteen lynx hurled themselves from one end of the bunk house to the other, clawing their way up the walls, jumping from one beam to the other, spitting, yowling and letting out the most blood curdling shrieks imaginable.

The last time I visited C... he was raising house cats on a large scale. I had not heard of his new venture but, although I fully expected to find something unusual in his household, I was not exactly prepared for what I saw. Half a mile before reaching his home I knew something was up. I could smell it; but when the shack came into sight, I had to stop to believe my eyes.

C... was walking back from his fishing hole in the ice of the lake. He was carrying a heavy bag of fish on his shoulder and was followed by 300 cats of all sizes, color and description.

They were marching behind him in mixed formation, picking their way daintily in the snow and carrying their tails straight up in the air. Their fur was long and silky but they had no ears to speak of, for the tips, frostbitten time and again, had shrivelled off, giving their heads an uncanny, bullet-like, appearance.

But what impressed me the most, in the dead calm of that January evening, was the sound of their voices. It was dinner time and the fact seemed to fill each cat with intense joy, for the 300 of them were singing a chorus, a peculiar throaty sing-song which they kept up without a break during the whole procession, from the fishing hole to the door step where eventually C... fed them carefully one by one.

Tale XLVI: An Eskimo Guide in the Barren Lands

Many years ago, on one of my first trips to the North, I once asked a white man what impression the Barren Lands had made upon him the first time he saw them in the winter. The man was one of the toughest specimens of a trapper one could ever hope to meet anywhere. He had roamed north of the trees for twenty years. He was illiterate, coarse and hardened to an unbelievable extent by the life he had led, but he had a kind of passionate love for the desolate country he knew so well.

He looked at me in a startled way, scratched his head and pondered.

“That’s a pretty hard thing to say,” he answered, “for I have no education. I guess a city guy could, if ever he was able to get there. When I reached the Barrens for the first time, I gave them one good look from the top of a hill. The only thing I remember thinking to myself was—Hell! What’s the use of swearing now?”

Several years later I was travelling in the same country in the heart of winter, and I thought of what my friend the trapper had told me. No other words could have described better what I felt at that moment. The cold was intense. The wind blew in savage gusts, lashing the snow in a stinging, powdery smother. Nothing in sight but rolling hills of glaring ice, with a few bare boulders showing their dark heads above the white desert. Nothing to break the awful monotony of that God forsaken country. Not a tree. Not even a shrub. Not a sign of animal life. Not a track.

In winter everything goes south—the birds, the wolves, the foxes, even the caribou. White men alone in their restlessness venture northward.

“The more fools are they,” I reflected bitterly as I plodded behind my sleigh in the teeth of the gale.

Since dawn we had fought our way, mile by mile, across those everlasting hills. I say “we”, for I had a companion and a guide, an Eskimo who drove his own team of dogs while I looked after my own. Unable to understand one another, except by signs, we made a strange pair struggling through the wilderness.

After the noon meal, the native iced the runners of my sleigh then motioned to me to go on, pointing the direction towards a high hill which one could dimly see on the horizon. Meanwhile, he proceeded to ice his own runners in the usual leisurely manner of all Eskimos to whom time, weather and hardship mean nothing.

For three hours I kept on my way without being caught up by my guide. Darkness was fast approaching and the gale increased, turning into a regular blizzard.

Tired out, anxious to make camp, I began to worry seriously about my companion. I was certain that I had not strayed from the route he had shown me, but I was afraid something might have happened to him somewhere behind me.

Seeing a small depression behind a rocky ridge where I knew I would find a certain amount of shelter, I drove my dogs to it and unhitched. Still no sign of my man! Leaving my dogs curled up beside the sleigh I started back on the trail. I walked for about ten minutes, stopping now and then to listen. Nothing but the wailing of the wind and the angry hiss of the driven snow.

I was frightened! Suddenly, a strange noise reached my ears through the howling gale. I thought I heard someone singing! In a few minutes the song increased in volume. I waited! Then I saw, emerging from the depths of the swirling snow, a team of five dogs, straining at a sledge. On the top of the load sat my Eskimo friend apparently oblivious to his surroundings. He was singing at the top of his voice and the words I heard, distinctly, were English—“It’s a long, long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go.” I stood there paralyzed with astonishment until he saw me, stopped and gave me a lift to camp.

As soon as I recovered from my surprise I started to question him in English. Not an answer could I get from him, except a chuckle and the same words I heard him singing.

Two weeks or so later, on our return trip, we stopped at one of our outposts. Our trader was entertaining a small group of natives with a gramophone and the tune was “Tipperary”. Then, and only then, did I get the explanation of my Eskimo’s sudden but limited outburst in English.

He had listened so often to the well-known tune that he had eventually mastered the words of the chorus which he could repeat by heart.

He had no idea of their meaning and those words were the only ones he actually could pronounce in the English language.

Tale XLVII: Man and Wife

Kakarmick is a full blooded inland Eskimo. He is supposed to live somewhere on the shores of Enendeia Lake in the northwest territories of Canada, but every two years or so he seems to grow restless and pitches off hurriedly at a moment’s notice for new fields of action.

He has travelled as far south as Brochet on Reindeer Lake and White Partridge Lake further west. He is known in Hudson Bay at Fort Churchill—Chesterfield Inlet—Repulse Bay. He has roamed as far as Bothnia in the North, along the banks of the Copper Mine River—as far west as Fond du Lac and Great Bear Lake.

I have known him for several years. Kakarmick is the most independent native I know. Contrary to the immemorial custom of his kind, he does not follow the caribou the year round. When he feels like it, he deliberately turns his back on the immense supply of food which Providence has given him and, fearlessly risking starvation, strikes straight through the Barren Lands towards his new goal.

Now and then he outfits at one of our posts, for he is a born trader and we know that he can reach certain Eskimos which we could not get at otherwise.

However small the catch may have been in fish, fur or fresh meat, Kakarmick always seems prosperous and happy. However long may have been his absence from one station, he is certain to appear some day, a year or so later, with a complete load of fur for the patiently expectant trader.

He has a wife, Taitna, who everlastingly and cheerfully travels with her lord and master through the thousands of miles of bleak wilderness which they both seem to know like a book. She is a big woman for that part of the country; 5 foot 3, two inches taller than her husband. When one sees her stalking up to you, one knows instinctively that she is the wife of an important person.

She shakes hands with a prize fighter’s grip and her deerskin coat seems to weigh a ton. It has wonderful designs of thousands of multi-colored beads. She even wears a thick border of empty cartridge cases at the bottom, which shine when the sun is out and clink merrily at each step.

Notwithstanding her appearance, Kakarmick rules her with a rod of iron. The last time I saw them it was on the frozen shores of Windy Lake. They were both sitting on the top of their sleigh and their five dogs were plainly tired.

The man had lost his whip but held, instead, a short thick piece of hard wood about three feet in length. Every hundred yards or so, he hurled that strange missile straight at one of the dog’s backs. I never saw him miss once. But what impressed me more was Taitna. Each time her husband threw that stick, she would jump off the sleigh, retrieve it and jump on again. Meanwhile, Kakarmick remained sitting astride his load, paying absolutely no attention to the exertions of his wife.

Tale XLVIII: “Forty Years Ago”

Last summer I met a very old Catholic missionary whom I have known for years. We were both on an inspection trip in the depths of the Canadian wilderness. Our reasons for roaming so far north from civilization were absolutely different. Still we both had one main interest at heart, that of the Indian; and, instinctively, we chose that topic of conversation while we sat smoking around the camp-fire that evening.

Wise to the ways of the natives, broad-minded like all the missionaries of the old school, the Father was in a reminiscent mood. His stories referred chiefly to his early days when many Chippewayans were still pagans, refusing to accept Christianity, although allowing their children to listen to the missionaries and follow some of their instructions.

The following story, among many others, appealed to me the most.

In a certain district, not so far from where we were, the Father, forty years ago, was endeavoring to convert the last “die hards” of a small tribe. He had, then, a rival in the person of an English Anglican missionary, who happened also to speak the native language well and to be a great traveller.

Both men, strange to say, were the best of friends. For economic reasons, they often joined forces by canoe and dog-sleigh, and during their hundreds of miles of travelling invariably compared notes on their religious achievements.

Each baptism that one missionary added to his list spurred the other one to greater efforts. It was a close race with honors about evenly divided for, where one missionary failed, the other one was almost certain to succeed.

One Indian alone had withstood the assault of both religions, refusing steadfastly to give up his old beliefs. He was a venerable great grandfather, the nominal head of a large family whose members had all been converted one way or the other. He always received the priest and the clergyman with great friendliness but invariably turned a deaf ear to all their arguments.

The more both missionaries agreed that the old pagan was “unconvertible”, the keener each one felt to achieve the impossible and win a triumph over the other.

One day, in winter, my friend the Father was travelling alone when he heard that the old Chippewayan was dying. Instantly he swung out of his road and raced to the Indian’s camp.

He found him lying peacefully on a bed of spruce, very weak and surrounded by several of his children.

To quote the priest’s own words, “The time had come. Surely the old Indian would not refuse to be baptized at death’s door.” Accordingly, he asked him if he could pray for him at the foot of his bed. The Indian opened his eyes for an instant, recognized the priest and nodded.

The Father started praying out loud in Chippewayan. He prayed and prayed with all his might while he watched the dying man’s face.

After a long time, the shadow of a smile hovered on the latter’s lips.

The missionary thought that he was at last making an impression on the old native and resumed his prayers with even more fervor. Finally he stopped exhausted. Surely victory was his. He got up on his feet and gently touched the man’s hand.

The old Indian opened his eyes and looked up at the priest steadily. His lips moved and the Father bent forward to listen. His hour had come at last he thought! His religion had won!

“My! but there was a lot of lynx last winter—a lot of lynx—a lot of lynx...!”

The words rang out clearly through the silence of the tepee. Then the grey-haired pagan closed his eyes. He smiled once or twice softly to himself, and then died suddenly without a quiver.

Tale XLIX: Fisher and Porcupine

All Indians are born liars when it comes to getting the better of a white trader. But outside of business, they are strictly truthful, especially when telling stories about animal life. A few years ago, a Chippewayan told me the following yarn, which I believe is true.

One winter, the Indian was on his way to his trapline on snow-shoes when he came across a medium sized fisher and a porcupine. He watched them at a distance without being seen.

The porcupine was huddled in a ball, every quill sticking out. The fisher, mad with hunger, was circling around, unable to find a weak spot in the prickly armor. After a while, the fisher chose a spot a few feet away from the porcupine and began digging a hole or tunnel through the snow, straight for its quarry. Every few minutes, the fisher would stop, go to the porcupine, run around it, and even scratch snow on its back so as to show that he was still there and prevent the other animal from moving away. That went on for a long time. Finally, the tunnel was ended. With unerring instinct the fisher had stopped his digging when he felt that he had reached a spot exactly beneath the porcupine’s neck. With a jerk upwards of his hard little snout, the fisher pierced the crust of snow, and before poor “Porky” could guess what was happening, he had him by the throat, far from the reach of the murderous quills.

Tale L: The Call of the Wild North of Fifty-three

You men who live in cities—who toil, day in and day out, in the thick of noisy, teeming multitudes, under artificial lights, under roofs, behind glass, in offices and factories far away from the sun and the air, the light and the wind—don’t you feel at times something tugging at your heart-strings?

Don’t you feel a great longing for something new, something clean, something different from what you have been accustomed to? Don’t you hear, now and then, a whispering coming from nowhere in particular and calling you? Calling and calling in the middle of the night when you lie awake; in the flush of dawn when you catch a gleam of the sky from your open window; in the evening when your work is done and when you find yourself going home? Do you know what I mean? Have you felt it?

It is the “Call of the Wild”, the oldest call of all—the call coming to you through generations and generations who have ignored it.

Some people may laugh; others may wonder. But the man who has answered that call will never forget it. He may return to civilization. He may cling to the memory of the discomforts and hardships only. He may endeavor not to wipe out of his mind the haunting feeling of solitude and loneliness which gripped him at times in the bleak wilderness through which he roamed. But sooner or later, the longing to go back there will come to him again and, if he cannot do so, he will always regret it.

Utter freedom! A camp pitched here, a meal cooked there. The sun rising while the crimson of sunset is still glowing in the West. The dull roar of the rapid in the distance. The sharp howl of the hunting wolf. The shimmer of the birch leaves. The hammering of the woodpecker. The splash of the fish rising to the surface of the lake. The plaintive call of the reed-warbler. The murmuring of the jack-pines. The Northern lights dancing silently in the sky. Peace and utter freedom!