Pre-civilization races

The factors had just returned to Snowdrift with a new stock of merchandise, and the Indians came paddling in from the islands in order to purchase toboggans and their winter supplies of ammunition, tobacco, and tea. Then they set their course eastward to Fond du Lac, whence they would start out for their hunting-grounds in the interior of the Barren Lands. 

Dale was bound for the land of the Hudson Bay Eskimos. I, too, had made up my mind to leave Indian country behind, was thinking of going up north on my own, and was in the very act of making last-minute preparations, when I met Antoine. 

Antoine was not a member of the Slave Lake tribe of Indians; he was a Caribou-Eater. The hunting-grounds of this tribe lie far off to the east and southeast of the lake. There a mighty arm of the forest extends far into the Barren Lands; it is crossed and recrossed by countless rivers and chains of large lakes. It is richer in fish and game than many another section and in olden times was the scene of many a bitter conflict between the tribes. 

From the caribou these Indians derive most of the food they require. They live a more isolated life than the other tribes and are renowned as an energetic, nomadic hunter-folk, covering vast distances in the course of their travels. There exist many legends concerning their adventurous life, and their bitter struggles against hunger and cold when the caribou fail to appear. To be sure, the Indians who live in the neighborhood of Snowdrift are dependent upon the caribou during the greater part of each year, but the name " Caribou-Eater " has a natural association with the eastern plains, where the ancestors of this present folk chose emphatically to settle. 

Originally there were large numbers of them, but sickness has claimed its toll, and today only a small group of them are left; these live on the banks of Nonacho Lake (the lake "with a string of islands"). It was from this district that Antoine had come. 

I was sitting in front of my tent and struggling to repair a snowshoe when he suddenly appeared in front of me. Without uttering a word he picked up the snowshoe and with swift dexterity laced it with babiche; before I knew it, he smiled and returned the snowshoe to my hand. He then paused to admire my dogs and asked me whither I was bound. I motioned toward the north. Then he said: "Si, nen, Thelon thesi, white fox ihle, nezon (I, you, Thelon River go, many white fox, good)." I asked where we would be able to find fuel so far in the interior of the Barren Lands. He flung his arms out in the direction of the east and answered: " Nacha tue, detchen thle, sentilly (Big lake, lot of trees, all right)." 

This interested me, not so much because of the hunting possibilities, but because it would give me an opportunity to live with the Caribou-Eaters and, together with them, penetrate into the country which had haunted my mind ever since I had come north: the country lying at the source of the Thelon River. The lower reaches of the river had been traced out by Tyrell; it winds its way through endless expanses of treeless plain before, at length, it empties as a mighty stream into Hudson Bay. But its head waters are unknown. They have forever been veiled in mystery. It is known, of course, that the Caribou-Eater Indians annually make long journeys by dog-sled to the upper Thelon, but they jealously guard the secrets surrounding this part of the country. Word had been spread abroad concerning a tract of forest growing about several large lakes in the very heart of the Barren Lands. 

In the last analysis it is probable that this is the same freak of nature which Samuel Hearne heard mentioned when, in 1770-2, together with the Indians, he made his famous journey across the Barrens from Prince of Wales Fort on Hudson Bay to the mouth of the Coppermine River. In his travel notes, he writes: " For more than a generation past one family only, as it may be called . . . have taken up their Winter abode in those woods, which are situated so far on the barren ground as to be quite out of the track of any other Indians. . . . Few of the trading Northern Indians have visited this place; but those who have, give a pleasing description of it, all agreeing that it is situated on the banks of a river which has communication with several fine lakes. . . . The accounts given of this place, and the manner of life of its inhabitants, would, if related at full length, fill a volume. . . ." * 

1  Samuel Hearne: A Journey from Prince of Wales Fort in Hudson's Bay, to the Northern Ocean. Undertaken by Order of the Hudson's Bay Company, for the Discovery of Copper Mines, a North West Passage, &c. In the Years 1769,1770, 1771, & 1772. (London: A. Strahan and T. Cadell; 1795.)

Antoine and I immediately came to an agreement. We decided that we would fish and hunt moose along the Snowdrift River until the caribou should appear from the north.  On our first journey by sled we would follow the herd on their customary migration in a southeasterly direction as far as Otter Lake, where Antoine had arranged a meeting with other members of his tribe. Together with them, we would proceed to the main village of the Caribou-Eaters, on the shores of Nonacho Lake, from there making a rapid journey with a large following of Indians in the direction of the Thelon River. 

Seven miles east, where the Snowdrift River empties into Stark Lake, was a well-known fishing-place. Thither we paddled, Antoine with his wife and children, and there, on the bank of the river, we raised our tents. We soon made the acquaintance of several other families belonging to the Slave Lake tribe. These, too, had planned to wait for good sledding before proceeding on into the Barrens. They were headed in a more northerly direction than we, in order that they might meet the Indians who, during the autumn, would be traveling through the country by canoe.

There would be another month before snowfall, and I thought it would be just as well to put this interim to some good use. "Hudson Bay" was in need of dog-feed to last them over the winter and I undertook to supply them with five thousand or more fish at eight cents apiece. During those years I had had a good bit to do with the Hudson's Bay Company: had felled, floated, and hauled hundreds of logs for the three new trading stores which Dale and I built, had chopped scores of cords of firewood, and had otherwise picked up odd jobs from them during the summer months when there was nothing else to do. Thus I was always able to earn a bit of loose money. But this fishing contract of mine stood in a class by itself. It was an economic triumph, for, as it turned out, there were no end of fish in the Snowdrift River that year. 

Hanging from a cache I had in the neighborhood of six thousand fish, waiting to be called for.

With the bright, sparkling autumn days at hand, it was grand to be a fisherman. Each morning I would paddle up the river to see to my nets, and when, at noon-time, I turned back, I would be sitting to my knees in fish. With ears erect and eyes ablaze with expectancy, the dogs would be standing on the outermost stones in the river to meet me. Sk0ieren would wade right out in the water and peep over the side of the canoe in order to make sure for himself what prospects there were for lunch. 

The Indians did not have many fish left over. They cast out their nets in the simplest manner possible, in the immediate vicinity of their tepees, and never did they make any notable catches. When at first I shifted my nets from place to place in order to discover, by experiment, where the fishing was best, they simply smiled superciliously. But after observing the excellent results I obtained, they began to study my movements. One morning I discovered Indian nets set on both sides and immediately in front of each of my own. I objected strenuously. The Indians took the whole affair as the most normal thing in the world, hauled in their lines right under my nose, sang and joked, boasted of their catch, and enjoyed themselves hugely whenever they peeped into my canoe, where only the very smallest variety of fish glittered in the bottom. 

There was no law to prohibit the Indians from setting out their nets wherever they desired, and it did one no good to fume when met by smiles and a clear conscience. Therefore I chose other tactics, based upon my knowledge that all the fish were swimming downstream and that the Indians were somewhat lazy. I drew out all my nets and set them several miles farther upstream, right at the foot of the first rapid. No one cared to follow me that far, and once more the fishing was excellent. 

This affair caused no rift whatever in our friendly relations. It was a hard and fast custom which took me, each evening, over to my neighbors to pay them a visit. In Antoine's tepee a place was always reserved for me on a huge caribou hide where I could stretch out and make myself at home. The hunters would assemble, and far into the night we would lie there, drawing on our pipes and chatting about hunting and distant lands. These people knew a minimum of English, their vocabulary being confined to such words as " white fox," " lots," " sticks," " far," " sleep," and a number of other words of this kind. I had, in the meantime, begun to acquire some insight into the Chipewyan language. My vocabulary was limited, my gutturals had a singular ring and caused an excusable stir, but I stammered away at it and made steady progress. 

I surely found no lack of clothes for the winter, for I had the young girls of the camp to make them for me. They made me mittens edged with caribou-skin, duffels (socks), and deerskin parkas. But I had to work like a blacksmith in order to avoid getting Indian sizes. The young girls could never stop giggling whenever they made mention of the white man's moccasins which had to be so inconceivably nacha (large).

Then comes another evening early in October. In the largest of the tepees the hunters are seated, staring into the open fire. Now and then one of them pushes aside the tent-flap and glances out. Down on the beach the squaws are standing in groups, peering out into the darkness. The mood of the night is definitely autumnal, with a gurgling from the river and a soft murmur from the lake. We are awaiting the moose-hunters. Three days ago they departed into the east, and tonight they must surely return. The eldest of the squaws has predicted it so, and thus there can be no doubt in our minds, for she feels it in her bones, and her intuition has seldom proved false. 

As we are sitting there, we hear a sudden cry from the beach. Like one man, we leap to our feet and race outside. My, but those squaws have sharp ears! Every now and then the wind ever so faintly brings us the sound of distant paddles. These sounds increase in intensity and duration and, at length, the canoe grounds on the beach. The women run over to it. Suddenly a stir runs through the crowd, immediately followed by a wild cry of jubilation: " E-then! E-then! (Caribou! Caribou!) " Then it seems as though the devil himself is let loose. " E-then! E-then! " they all cheer together, dancing round and round in each other's arms like crazy folk, slapping each other on the back, smiling and laughing. Antoine puts both arms around me and whirls me away, the end of it being that I tumble over backwards down the sloping bank of the river. After regaining my balance somewhat, I do not hold myself aloof from these Indians. The last trace of civilization is blown to the four winds. I clutch little Antoine in my arms, and round and round we dance until our breath gives out, and then we shout, "E-then! E-then!" until our throats are raw.

Yes, the caribou had arrived. East of the mountains the hunters had encountered the herd streaming out of the northwest. 

And it was not long before, one evening, the sound of bells was heard through the forest. Six steaming dog-trains pulled up in front of the tepees, tall men clad in heavy caribou parkas hopped out of the sleds, pushed their hoods back from their heads, and looked smilingly around. These were the Caribou-Eaters. 

We greeted each other and betook ourselves to Antoine's tent, which was soon packed. A pot of meat was brought forth and emptied in silence. Not until our pipes were lighted did the conversation begin. Tijon, the eldest of the Caribou-Eaters, and Antoine talked in hushed tones about all the different things that had happened during the year. Misfortune seemed to interest them most. When at last they were finished, Tijon turned to me. " Segue — oh, brother-in-law!" he began. "You Antoine's friend. You follow Indians to Thelon River. That is all right. I show way. First many sleeps without fire. Always cold wind, maybe empty stomach. If brother-in-law not afraid, white man and Indian make big journey. Many caribou and white fox die."

The first to arrive were busy, putting the camp in order. Amidst a confusion of dogs and sleds, men were rushing hither and yon in the firelight. Some were carrying huge logs and throwing them into the fire, already piled as high as a man's head. Others were dragging in spruce brush, which they then scattered over the camp-site and tramped down in a large semicircle about the flames. A thick covering of spruce twigs completed the floor of the camp. Back from the fire a way, the sleds were arranged end to end so as to form a circular barricade. 

When we arrived, we unhitched our dogs, chained them up, and gave them beds of spruce branches to lie upon; then we pitched in and helped with the general work. In the course of an hour the camp was fully settled and it was time to be thinking of ourselves. We took our seats facing the fire, each with his back to his own sled, the eldest in the middle. Heavy pots were stuffed with snow and, by means of long poles, lifted into the flames. Tea and meat were produced. About the flames there appeared a whole row of spits on which caribou heads, knuckles, ribs, and kidneys were roasting. One leg of meat after another was buried in the snow with the flat side to the heat; this was the food for the dogs, which first had to be thawed out. 

First we took out the large pot of meat, for in this we each had a share. The eldest helped themselves first. With their fingers they reached down into the pot and pawed around until they had located the choicest pieces of meat. Fat and marrow were usually their portion. Then came our turn, and we others did likewise and reached down into the pot. One learned very quickly to discard all semblance of modesty. The meat was cooked on one side only; the other side was raw, but it slid down one's gullet easily enough, for all that. 

When the pot was empty, we each put to good use the titbit roasting on our respective spits. Here, too, only the meat nearest the bone is eaten, the coarser cuts, such as would be used as a " roast" by civilized people, being eliminated and thrown to the dogs. The true delicacies consist of liver, heart, kidney, fat, marrow, breast, and head of caribou. The marrow is eaten raw, all else halfcooked. The head, placed in the flames without removing the skin or even the hair, is the best part of the entire beast and provides a whole menu in itself. From it one has the brains, the fat behind the eyes, the nerves of the teeth, the tongue, and, most delicious of all, the nose and lips of caribou, with their own peculiar taste of chestnuts. In addition to this, the gourmands amongst the older Indians have their own special dishes, such as blood and the contents of the stomach boiled together into a kind of soup, the tissues of the larynx, et cetera. 

Such was the Caribou-Eaters' diet, which was also to be mine during that and subsequent years. Moreover, it is the only diet which is effective, day in and day out, during the course of a long, cold Winter when one is obliged to nourish oneself on meat exclusively. 

These people are past masters in the art of butchering a carcass and of preparing food. With firm sure hands they turn and twist the meat on a spit, until a delicate brown color appears. They use a heavy broad knife, and hack as frequently as they slice. They know where every muscle and every joint of the carcass lies, and seldom do they cut in the wrong place

The conversation turns to hunting, and Tijon tells about the caribou. He was a little boy when he shot his first game, with a bow and arrow; since then he has shot many. He talks at length of the Caribou-Eaters who starved to death a good many years ago and advises me to eat reindeer moss whenever there is danger of going with an empty belly. Then he goes back to " the old days " when the Caribou-  Eaters were a powerful people who made long expeditions up into the land of the Eskimo after musk-oxen. " There were many many sleds in those days," he says. " And when musk-ox die and the hunters hold a feast, you see many tepees, like big forest, in the Land without Trees. But now — ! " He makes a disparaging gesture in the direction of his fellow-Indians. The Eskimos he wants nothing at all to do with. In the past he has occasionally come across one of their ancient camps and found there the skin of an animal he has never seen alive (the seal). It also happened, that he has seen the tracks of " big snowshoe " in the snow and strange men far off in the distance. Aside from this, he has but one thing to say about his northern neighbor: " Husky nezonilly (Eskimo bad man)! " 

Johnny begins to discuss dogs. He prefaces his remarks by reporting how excellent his own dogs are, then mysteriously hints about what happens to certain kinds of dogs when they get up into foreign country — the Barren Land. I sound him out, and he replies that such dogs never return to the woodland. He cites the example of a certain white trapper's dogs, nearly all of which were consumed. I cautiously suggest that perhaps they ran off after the caribou and got lost, or that they had had thin coats of fur and had frozen to death. But Johnny shakes his head in the negative; there is but one explanation: the foreign land gobbled them up! 

The Indian's ability to orient himself in the wilderness has always been a source of amazement to me, and, in order to keep the conversation going, I begin speaking about the compass. I have lost mine long ago, but I take out my watch and illustrate as well as I can. The Indians look on with smiles on their faces and conclude that I am talking nonsense. Just when I am all wound up and stumped for words to explain the action of the needle's magnetic attraction for north and south, Tijon takes me by the arm and says: " Come, you see! " Together we leave the tent. The sky is bespangled with stars, and beneath them, over the woods, flame the Northern Lights. Tijon points to the Great Bear, the North Star, and the Pleiades. I cannot follow him through all the figures he draws, with strange descriptions, in the heavens, but I understand very well that he is explaining his compass to me. Then he directs my attention to the aurora and says: " Good clock." He points at the northern wall of the tent and describes an arc over to the east. " Morning early, you see," he says. 

"But," I ask, " what do you do when there are no stars, no Northern Lights? " Then he points to the tall snow-drifts and makes it clear to me that those who have eyes in their heads after a storm can guide themselves along by these, and he explains how one can tell north from south from the bark and the limbs of the trees. At length he adds: " Maybe big wind in Land without Trees, maybe nothing see, but Indian always know way, here! " Smilingly he touches the tip of his finger to his forehead