"Suppose we take a whack at the Barrens now," says Dale, as we sit there enjoying the evening. I agree that the time has arrived for us to find our way into that country we have from the very beginning planned to explore. It is unwise for us to set out into the unknown, when we have so thoroughly arranged for our security here beside Moose Lake. We realize that full well. But those wide barren plains are calling and beckoning to us, and we are filled with a keen unrest. . . . 

The journey lasted well over a month, and when we returned, we were rich in experience, but in little else. We had seen the Barren Lands and learned what their malevolence could be like. 

Bad luck was with us from the very start. Blizzards set in and our hunting went awry. Along the way we met a party of Indians who reported that they had a camp up near the northwest end of Artillery Lake. We decided to make this our first objective; there we could always get a little food for the dogs, whilst we hunted and stored up meat to last us for some time to come. I have no clear recollection of that last day crossing Artillery Lake, as we pressed on hoping to reach the camp of the Indians. The hlizzard beat directly in our faces, and the dogs could hardly see. We kept on going, far into the night. At length we came to a bay. This must be the place, we thought. During the rest of that night and all the next day we saw no sign of human life. So we shared the last of our grub with the dogs and started on our way back home. 

The dogs were hungry and we were hungry and we might have had a really hard time of it, were it not for the fact that we stumbled on a caribou carcass which the Indians had left there as white-fox bait. The viscera had not been removed and the meat stank horribly, but it was something to eat, none the less. We cut off as much of the meat as we thought we would need and, as payment for this, we hung on the antlers of the dead beast a little pail containing the last of our sugar. It swayed back and forth in the wind and indeed it looked forlorn! A year later I met the Indian who had found the pail of sugar and, when I brought the matter up, he beamed all over and cried: "Nezon, nezon, nezon!" meaning that he had been highly pleased over the exchange.

Occasionally Dale and I meet in the cabin after intervals of several weeks. Then we rest up for a day or two whilst preparing ourselves for a fresh expedition. There is always something to talk over. We are both eager to trade experiences and are forever inquiring about the lay of the land in the other's territory. 

There is one matter which begins to concern us more and more: the coming of the caribou. What in the name of Heaven has become of them? Christmas is drawing near, and for a long time our diet has consisted solely of fish, a most inadequate form of nourishment on a cold winter's day. We no longer find it so easy to keep going on snowshoes, and when the thermometer drops to temperatures somewhere between 40° and 70° below zero, the cold seems sharper than it ought. Our food-supply for the dogs, too, is becoming perilously low. 

Hunger for meat again afflicts us. As we sit on our upturned stumps before the stove, our conversation inevitably returns to the subject of juicy meat. Dale, who is the soberest man in the world, dwells longingly upon his memory of a certain roast of lamb he once ate. He describes it in great detail, tells me how tender and juicy it was, how much there was of it. " No, there's nothing like a good roast of lamb," he concludes. I challenge his statement by bringing up the matter of beaver, lay powerful arguments before him, and sum up with the incontrovertible statement that roast lamb is as flat to the taste as squab, compared with a nice juicy beaver. 

Of late both the wolf and the fox have been increasing in number. This indicates that the caribou cannot be so very far away. Strange, then, that neither of us has seen a trace of them during our long expeditions. Each time we meet in the cabin, our first question is: " Have you seen them yet? " But the answer is ever the same. A white stillness lies over the forest, a thick blanket of snow, embroidered with the same small animal tracks. We wait and we wait. . . . 

Then one day we are sitting in the cabin eating our midday meal, mechanically swallowing down our fish and staring out over Moose Lake, as it lies there in a bath of sunshine. Suddenly I start up. "Isn't there something black moving off there by the river mouth?" I make a grab for my gun and leap for the door. . . . There they are! The caribou! . . . 

One by one the animals appear at the edge of the woods. With easy playful springs they proceed out onto the lake, pause for a time, gaze about them, then resume their leisurely march, the older ones walking with sedately measured strides, their necks stretched far forward as they sniff about in the snow. An endless procession of bucks, does, and fawns. Ever-increasing numbers follow, and soon they are like an army invading our quiet land. 

One enormous buck is leading the herd. His head is bowed beneath his mighty crown of antlers, and the shaggy mane about his neck is as shiny and white as the snow. Calves lope everywhere, dancing about with a restless energy; occasionally a pair of young bucks pause to restrain them. Nearer and nearer they come to the cabin, resting so peacefully here in amongst the trees, a plume of frosty wood smoke curling up from our chimney into the blue sky. 

No more than five or six hundred feet from the cabin the leader suddenly halts, raises his head to investigate. Instantly the whole line halts. A sea of heads, motionless, staring. We are hardly able to believe our eyes. The caribou have actually arrived! Over stretches measuring hundreds of miles the herd has wandered south from the Arctic to seek the woodlands, and here they are, strolling right past our door, just as though it were the most natural thing in the world. . . . 

The forest lives and breathes with them. Everywhere there are caribou. We hear them crashing through the thickets as we drive along in our toboggans, we encounter small flocks of them asleep on the ice of each lake. The snow is carved and re-carved by a network of deep and hard-packed deer paths. 

Now we have no need to complain of meat shortage. We set up two lines of spruce brush planted in the snow, about thirty feet apart, extending this lane from the other side of the lake where the caribou usually come out of the woods, all the way back to the cabin. Thus game is deflected over in our direction and, as a rule, we can kill as many as we need right in our own front yard. But after the first wave the caribou arrive in more scattered contingents, and these are more wary than the first. Therefore we adopt regular hunting methods and go after them with our dog-teams. 

A band of caribou is in sight off there on a lake. I hop into my toboggan and give the dogs a word they are quick to understand. They all prick up their ears and start staring off into the distance. Then, as their eyes light upon the game, we are off. Madly we gallop ahead, the toboggan skidding and leaping, as it hisses along over the snow. I hold tight to the ropes of the cariole, throw my weight from side to side, afraid that any moment we shall capsize. Closer and closer we come to the caribou, and Sport lets out more than one gasping whine, out of sheer enthusiasm. . . . Suddenly the herd becomes aware of us. Those which before have been fast asleep on the ice are on their feet in the twinkling of an eye, and together they present a solid front against the storm of our approach. They stare, bursting with curiosity. Never in their lives have they seen anything quite so odd. But the strange phenomenon does not pause for an instant, it keeps coming straight in their direction, so perhaps they had better be thinking of their safety. A young buck begins stamping with anger, makes a tremendous perpendicular leap into the air, coming down on his hind legs first, repeats the performance — once — twice — three times in succession, then starts running off over the ice as fast as his legs will carry him. Instantly the others turn tail with a wrench of their bodies and, in a single tightly packed mass, storm off down the lake, snow flying in their wake. A sudden senseless panic has put them to flight, and there is every indication that they will keep on running until miles lie between them and our sled. Then, as is their wont, they will halt just as suddenly and will turn round to resume their staring. 

The dogs are now wild with excitement and are straining themselves to the utmost. Sport, as leader, keeps his eyes fastened upon the caribou, makes after them by sight alone, paying no attention to their tracks in the snow. A pair of large bucks separate themselves from the main flock and begin trotting off by themselves in a zigzag course. Like a shot, Sport is after them. Soon we are near enough. " Whoa! " I command, and the dogs stop dead in their tracks. A shot rings out over the ice. One caribou crumples and falls. 

It is not always so simple as that. There are times, especially on really cold days, when we must spend hours hunting the caribou. Sometimes it is utterly impossible to come within range of them. When one of their number lies wounded in the snow, however, the others will usually halt and stand by; thus the hunter may without difficulty shoot as many as he needs. When the snow lies deep in the woods, the caribou are reluctant to leave the ice, even when they are being hunted. A shot fired ahead of a band will, as a rule, cause them to change in their course. In a pinch, it is possible to shoot from a moving sled, provided the dogs and the game are running abreast of each other. But even then it is sheer luck if one is able to hit the mark. When a toboggan is skidding every which way, one's shot is more than likely to go off in the direction of the clouds or straight down in the midst of the dogs. 

Hunting the caribou with a dog-train has no equal for sport. It thrills the heart of the hunter. Nevertheless, it is exacting in a number of particulars. One must enjoy full mastery over one's dogs and must act quickly and with precision. If one has a dependable lead-dog, half the chase is won. With a dog that feels, even for an instant, that he can have his own way, one might just as well try to hunt with a team of wild horses. And if it happens that, out on the open plains or on the ice of a large lake, a hunter steps out of his sled and fails to keep an eye on his dogs, the merest whim on their part may mean that he has seen them for the last time. Given their freedom, they will continue their blind, insane pursuit as long as they have breath in their bodies. . . .

One day Dale went out beaver-hunting, leaving me home to whittle out stretching-boards for lynx- and fox-skins. Some time during the evening I suddenly heard the sound of voices coming from down by the lake. Three men were approaching the cabin — Dale with a redskin on either side of him. The Indians, who were prowling about through the forest on a hunt for moose, had caught sight of the smoke from Dale's fire in the distance. It was thus they had encountered him. Their home was farther north on a lake they called No-ni-e Tue (Wolf Lake) and they had now been out several weeks. Neither of them presented a particularly trustworthy appearance, ragged and drenched as they were from head to foot. Aside from a rifle, a knife, and a handful of matches they owned nothing in the world. At night they must have flopped down just as they were, and slept in slush and muck. But they took their hardships and their empty bellies with cool indifference. They smiled and apparently were extremely well pleased with their existence. 

We set before them a huge kettle of fish, which they devoured before we could catch our breath. We then let them fill their pipes from our tobacco, after which they grunted contentedly and stretched out on our sleeping-bags, meanwhile smearing them up generally with their filthy moccasins. From our conversation with them we gathered that the caribou were still far in the interior of the Barren Lands and that we could not expect them in our vicinity until " small lakes all ice." 

The following morning we paddled the Indians across to the opposite shore of the lake, from whence they immediately resumed their interrupted moose-hunt. We spent the next few nights tense with anxiety, but it was soon apparent, thank God, that our guests had taken all their lice along with them. 

It is a tradition in the Far North that one's door must stand open to all who happen to pass and that food must be set before all guests. Hospitality is the law of the land, and the man who breaks this law in the end will suffer most. Sooner or later each man finds that he himself is in need of a hand-out, and it has happened on more than one occasion that the Indians have saved white men from almost certain death. There have been cases of starving and exhausted trappers becoming lost in the wilds, and other instances of white hunters, the powerless victims of scurvy, being discovered indoors in their cabins. In the latter case, the Indians would cure their patient with fresh caribou's blood or spruce-needle tea, and they have even been known to drive a sick man all the way in to the trading post. On the other hand, the cabin or tent of the white man has turned out to be the salvation of many a hungry, freezing redskin. . . .

We had pitched our tent down by the beach and were enjoying life in front of our fire, when one canoe after another appeared through the darkness, a short distance away from us. Before these reached the shore, the dogs were splashing in the water. When the first canoe grated against the bottom, a man sprang out, and in a moment or two a fire was blazing in among the spruces. Men, women, and children poured out of the canoes and, as if by magic, a whole village of tepees had suddenly sprung up. These were the Indians which inhabited this district — all together about a hundred of them. They had spent the entire summer on the shores of Great Slave Lake and had subsisted entirely on fish. They were now on their way up into the Barrens to meet the caribou herds migrating south from the Arctic into wooded country — for the rest of the winter they would lead a nomad existence on the trail of the herd. Their days of meat-eating were almost at hand. 

During the evening a party of hunters came over to us, a troop of emaciated dogs at their heels. 

"Si tzel-twi (Me tobacco)," was their opening remark, as one of the Indians pointed to our tobacco pouches. We permitted them to fill their pipes, which they first dug out carefully with their knives. We were easy-marks, they certainly must have thought, for one of them immediately stepped forward and asked for a sled. Another pointed to Trofast and demanded him. A third gave the distinct impression that nothing less than our entire outfit would satisfy him, and was highly incensed over the fact that we denied him such a reasonable desire. Later, when they had finished with their begging, we offered them something to eat, and with that they forgave us. A lively conversation ensued: the Indians rattled on in their language, to which we made answer in English. They on their side and we on ours illustrated the meaning of each word with an ingenious gesture, nodded eagerly, smiled understandingly at each other, comprehended not a thing. 

But when the word " e-then " began to occur in the conversation of the Indians, we became immediately aware of what they were talking about. " E-then," we knew, was their word for caribou, the all-important topic of conversation in this part of the world. The fact which interested us most we were soon able to untangle. One of the Indians put his cheek against his hand as though he were asleep, raised four fingers in the air, pointed toward the east, meanwhile repeating over and over: " E-then thle, e-then thle (Many caribou, many caribou)." No one could misunderstand this. The caribou were back on the treeless plains, four days' journey away.

Rangifer arcticus (Richardsons). Barren Ground Caribou. " Tûk'tū ” (universal Eskimo name).

Adult bull, Pag'nirk. Adult female, Kūl'la -vŭk. Fawn, Nö'wak.

With the possible exception of the Bowhead Whale, the Caribou is without doubt the most important animal of the Arctic. There is scarcely anything manufactured which can equal Caribou skin as an article of clothing; in many districts the natives live for long periods almost exclusively upon the meat of the Caribou, while there are many vast sections of the land which could with difficulty even be explored without relying upon finding the herds of Caribou. The Caribou were formerly universally and abundantly distributed over all parts of Arctic Alaska and Canada, but the numbers have been enormously decreased nearly everywhere within the last twenty years. Until a few years ago the coastal plain of Arctic Alaska, from Point Barrow to the Mackenzie, was the pasture of vast herds. Only an occasional scattered band is now seen. As a consequence most of the Eskimo have been compelled by starvation to move out, notably from the Colville River region. The Caribou are practically extinct around Point Barrow, and our party in the year 1908-1909 found only a few between Cape Halkett and the Colville. We saw a herd of perhaps four hundred in the Kuparuk River delta (the only large band seen by anybody in northern Alaska that season) and other small bands as far west as Demarcation Point. Around the mouth of the Mackenzie the Caribou have practically disappeared, although stragglers are occasionally seen on Richard Island and in the Eskimo Lakes region. Few are now found on the Cape Bathurst peninsula, and only small numbers around Langton Bay and Darnley Bay. There are places in the interior of Alaska which are more favored. In the southern foothills on the Endicott Mountains, on one of the northern tributaries of the Yukon, beyond the ordinary range of the Indians or the white prospectors, I saw in 1908 as many as one thousand Caribou in a single herd. Farther east, the Caribou are much more plentiful. Victoria Island pastures great numbers in summer. These herds cross to the mainland south of Victoria Island as soon as Dolphin and Union Straits and Coronation Gulf are frozen over in the fall (in 1910, about November 8th - 10th ), returning north over the ice in April and May. Some Caribou are found all summer around Great Bear Lake and the Coppermine River. Large numbers winter on Caribou Point, the large peninsula between Dease Bay and Mc Tavish Bay at the eastern end of Great Bear Lake. Here on the cold, calm days of midwinter the steam from the massed herds often rises like a cloud over the tops of the scattering spruce forests. Although a large number of Caribou come down into the Bear Lake woods, and go out on the Barren Grounds in spring, not all the Caribou seek the shelter of the woods in winter. Some Caribou are found in midwinter on the most wind-swept barrens and occur on almost any part of the Arctic coast at any season of the year. 

The Eskimo of the Coronation Gulf and Victoria Island region have no firearms and kill Caribou by driving a herd between long rows of rock monuments into an ambush or into lakes where the Caribou are pursued and speared from kayaks. Two or three stones or a bunch of turf placed on top of a rock two or three feet high, or even less, to resemble persons, form these little cairns, often extending for miles and converging in some valley or gulch. The Caribou ordinarily pay no attention to these monuments, but when alarmed by the sight of people, seem to become confused and do not venture to cross the lines of mounds. The custom is to have a person stationed here and there along the line, while others surround the herd of Caribou and start it moving towards the line. As the Caribou approach, the people along the line of rock monuments display themselves, throwing the herd into a panic and as the herd rushes along between the converging lines into the ambush where concealed bowmen have an opportunity to shoot the Caribou at very short range. On the Barren Grounds around Coronation Gulf these inuktjuit (inuk [man ] -like) Caribou drives are found everywhere. But even in this most favorable Caribou country the older people say that in their youth the Caribou were much more abundant than at present. 

The hunting of the Barren Ground Caribou, as it is practiced by white men and the Eskimo who use firearms, is in theory a very simple matter. The prime requisites are unlimited patience and much hard work. The field -glass or telescope is almost as necessary as the rifle, since the Caribou should be discovered at a distance. The herd is spied out from the highest knolls or elevations, and if the country is rough enough to afford even a little cover, the approach is comparatively easy by hunting up the wind, as the Caribou do not see very far. Their powers of scent and hearing are very acute, however. On a broad, flat tundra plain, where there is no cover, and there are not enough hunters to approach from several sides, obviously the proper thing to do is to wait for the Caribou to browse slowly along and move on to more favorable ground for stalking. During the short days of winter this is often impossible and under any circumstances is trying to the patience. The reputed superiority of the Eskimo hunter over his white confrère seems to be mainly in the former's willingness to spend unlimited time in approaching his quarry. The Great Bear Lake Indians often take advantage of the Caribou's frequent habit of circling around the hunter until certain of the danger. They will sneak up as far as practicable, then come out into the open and run directly at the Caribou, which often stand stupidly until the hunter is very near or else circle blindly around until they get the scent of the hunter and make off. I have always found it much easier to approach a small herd than a large one, because there is always a straggler or two on the flanks of a large herd to give alarm before the main body is approached. 

For the purposes of making clothing, the skins of the Caribou are at their best from the 1st of August until about the 10th of September. Later than that the hair becomes too long and heavy. Towards the end of winter the hair begins to get loose, and by the last of April is so very loose that the skin is practically worthless. During June and July the Caribou usually have a more or less patchy appearance, due to bunches of loose, faded, old hair remaining in places. Summer skins are often badly perforated by the grubs of a species of bot- fly. Caribou skins are exceptional non -conductors of heat. When a number of Caribou are killed during the short days of mid winter, the Eskimo often skin only the legs, double the legs under the body, and pack soft snow around the carcass. I have seen many Caribou left out overnight at a temperature of —45° Fahrenheit, and lower, and the heat retained by the skin so that the body was warm and readily skinned the next day. 

The fawns, seldom more than one in number, are born between the 1st and 15th of June. Two young fawns taken near the Colville delta, Alaska, June 16th, 1909, were quite different in color, one being decidedly brown, with short, sleek coat; the other was whitish gray with very little " fawn ” color, and hair longer and softer, more woolly in texture. No traces of spotting on either specimen. The Caribou seen east of the Coppermine River and on the south side of Coronation Gulf seemed to average much lighter in color than the Caribou found on Great Bear Lake or on the Arctic coast west of Cape Parry. With very few exceptions the Coppermine Caribou were very light, with legs nearly white. The heads of these Caribou appeared to be much shorter than those of the Great Bear Lake Caribou, with a noticeable fullness or convexity between forehead and nose, reminding one in some degree of the profile of a rabbit. The difference is not very noticeable on the skulls, the fullness of the face being largely due to the fuzziness of the whorl of hair on front of face. 

The old bull Caribou begin to shed their antlers by the first of January or earlier, and most of them have dropped them by the month of February. The young bulls and cows retain their antlers until May. On Caribou Point the old bulls herded together in winter, and in their antler-less condition presented a pitiably tame and defense-less appearance, in contrast to the bull Caribou’s belligerent-looking autumn attitude. By the 10th of May the new antlers of the old bulls are about a foot long, with blunt, knobby ends. 

Many Eskimo claim to be able to pick out the fat Caribou from a herd by observing the shape of the horns. This is probably merely the ability to distinguish between the sexes in a herd at the different At Great Bear Lake in the fall, before the rutting season, the old bulls had the greatest quantities of fat. In midwinter all the bulls were poor, while the cows often had considerable fat. Towards spring the young bulls began to pick up a little fat, while the cows seemed to fall away as the calving season approached. The cows can usually be distinguished from young bulls by the relative slenderness of their antlers. Old bulls seldom have much fat before the end of the mosquito season. When the antlers are full grown, then they begin to pick up rapidly. The largest slab of back-fat which I have seen taken from a Caribou on the Arctic coast was from a bull killed near Langton Bay early in September, the fat weighing 39 pounds. seasons. A large bull killed by Mr. Stefansson on Dease River in October had back-fat 72 mm. in thickness (2 inches). Comparing the thickness of this with the Langton Bay specimen, the back-fat of the Dease River bull must have weighed at least 50 pounds. The thicker the back-fat of a Caribou is, the richer it is in proportion —the amount of connective tissue remaining the same, and the additional weight consisting of interstitial fat.