Facultative Carnivore

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. . . .

Frosty days set in and thin ice formed on lake and tarn. We then threw our guns over our shoulders, and each went his own way into the forest. It was important that we should acquaint ourselves with the lay of the land so that we should have everything clear in our minds when the time should come for us to set out with our dogs upon our winter hunting expeditions. Furthermore, we were in need of meat. 

Whilst scouting about to the south, we came across a large colony of beavers. That there were beaver in isolated numbers up here at the very gate to the treeless plains, we already knew, but the fact that in vast numbers they made themselves as much at home along this modest watercourse as they might under more hospitable conditions was something new to us. Down through the valley beside the river and at the edge of small pools we found one earth mound after another and an occasional ancient, moss-grown dam. The beavers, too, were busy with last-minute autumn chores. Their houses had been smeared over with a fresh layer of clay, and under the water in front of each mound of earth lay a mighty tangle of sticks, branches, and roots of aquatic plants — the winter's food-supply. 

Beaver pelts are not of prime quality until late spring. Hence we shot only enough of these animals to supply us with an occasional beaver steak. Both the dogs and we knew that this was the right thing to do. At nightfall when I trudged home to the cabin bending forward under the weight of a beaver carcass, Trofast, Nigger, and Spike would come loping up to me, sniffing at the bag I was carrying, jumping all over me and almost pushing me over. And when at length the beaver was on the table, done to a turn and delicious, we didn't have a care in the world. The greatest delicacy in the way of beaver meat is the flat tail, which is uncommonly rich and tasty; it is covered with a thick skin, which must first be burned off. A couple of the largest tails we stored away to eat on Christmas Eve or to use for swapping in the event we were to encounter Indians. A redskin will bend over backward to get hold of one of his favorite dishes, such as an unborn caribou calf or the horns of deer in velvet, but for a beaver tail he is willing to sell his soul.

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. . . .

"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.

On Great Slave Lake, in the vicinity of the Snowdrift River, there is a trading post managed by a halfbreed. Here a number of Indians and a handful of white trappers have assembled at the close of the winter hunting season. The year is well on into April, and the melting of the snows has reached its most disagreeable stage. In amongst the tents, gleaming white in the clearing, there is a veritable network of gurgling brooklets. Jutting out over the eaves of the store itself is a tremendous fold of wet snow from which long icicles hang like glittering spears. Lake and forest lie knee-deep in slush. 

There are five of us in our tent — four white trappers and an Indian, named Souzi. We are all planning to go out after beaver, the others two by two, I as a lone hand. Outside in the snow our toboggans are lying in a row, each simply waiting for the dogs to step into the harness. Our outfits are packed, ready to go. These consist of a gun and ammunition, an ax, matches, a woolen blanket, and any number of smaller articles. Some of the men are also taking with them canvas, nails, and paint in order that they may cut ribs from the willow and build themselves a canoe. Thus they will be able to make use of the rivers after the ice has broken up. Grub consists of a pail of dried meat and fat, which is enough to last the first few days; there-after we shall have to rely upon wild game. The beaverhunter must have as little as possible to drag with him, must be willing to go hungry often, and must be tireless on the trail.