46 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[July 21, 1894. 
OVER THE BORDER. 
"I would not make a trip around Lake Superior if 
some one were to pay my fare. I would be content to 
live the year through within sound of the carriages on 
Third street." Such was the reply of a gentleman in St. 
Paul to whom I had spoken of the charms of a voyage 
around this inland sea. 
But I confess to a taste so different that I am ill-con- 
tent to stay in the city unless I can see the country or the 
woods once a week. Accordingly, while others were 
l>ent for the sea shore, the lake side, and other scenes of 
the summer engagement, I was dreaming of a dryad mis- 
tress among the woods and waters of northern Minnesota, 
and sret forth to see if I might realize my dream. 
Our party consisted of three— Mr. John Wheeler, of 
Duluth, a young man who combines the intelligence and 
culture of the citizen with the woodcraft of the savage; 
Frank Mesoba, an Ojibbeway Indian guide, and the 
writer. 
My journey by water extended from Tower, Minnesota, 
to Rat Portage, Ontario, some 250 miles, and about 90 
miles of this was made in the canoe. 
Though our voyage lay through a land of big game, we 
sat not out with intent to kill, the only shooting imple- 
ment in the outfit being a kodak. 
At 6 o'clock on a bright July morning we boarded our 
frail craft at Camp Wakemup, a little Indian reservation. 
We started for a point where the Vermillion Lake empties 
into the river of the same name — Mr. Wheeler in the bow, 
Mesoba in the stern, and the writer between — and thus, 
with paddles alternately dipping in the lake and flashing 
in the sun, our birchen vessel glided over the sheen of 
waters "like a yellow leaf in autumn, like a yellow water 
lily." 
A trip down the Vermillion River very properly begins 
with a portage — presage of much that is to follow, for the 
impassable portions of the river are frequent. The first 
ten miles is but a chain of lakes. But after that it as- 
sumes the general shape of a river. The shores are mostly 
1 >w and marshy; a lynx's eye could hardly penetrate the 
denseness of the underwood. In places great bunches of 
wdd hay nod like sheaves over the banks, and here an I 
there is a garden where the water lilies display their 
'•purity of stainless white" and unbosom a "heart of gold" 
as if unafraid to open themselves to the inspection of 
heaven. 
Fields of wild rice often extend for miles on either side 
of the channel — the heaven-sent manna to those who 
sojourn. in the American wilderness, for they gather in 
hundreds in the autumn, and running their canoes into 
the rice, bend it over the gunwale and thresh it into the 
bottom of the craft. This is a season of great mirth and 
match-making among the Indians. 
These rice beds are also the feeding ground of great 
flocks of ducks; and here multitudes of them are shot 
every fall. But this is also a country of larger game — the 
moose, the bear and caribou are found. During our 
voyage we sighted two deer by the river brink. I wanted 
tj photograph them, but ere I could get within range they 
withdrew into the undergrowth and were swallowed 
up as in a thick cloud. Here and there a broken blade of 
grass or a Hlypad floating down the stream, elicited from 
Mesoba the word "Moose!" These monarchs of the forest, 
wading into the water to avoid the flies and feed upon the 
succulent roots, detach these vegetable fragments, and 
nothing of this kind escapes the instinctive vigilance of 
the Indian. They frequency catch the young moose alive 
and sell them to fanciers. In a short time they become as 
t ime as pet lambs. I saw and photographed several of 
them. They are not unlike a young colt in appearance. 
Some time ago an old gentleman from Tennessee, who 
held a Government position on the Big Horn, a tributary 
of the Rainy River, was up looking after the home- 
steaders. His leading ambition was to kill a moose. 
Standing on the river bank one morning he discovered on 
the opposite shore what appeared to be a span of mules. 
"What a fine shot," he said to himself, "if they were only 
moose." And so tickled was he with the idea that he 
took his rifle and leveled it at them, laid it down again, 
feeling that his fancy was "all a dream, too pleasing 
sweet to be substantial." He stood and watched the 
animals turn into the woods, when it dawned upon him 
that in that wilderness he was far from the haunts of 
mules — save himself, the stupidest of all mules — for the 
animals that had paid him their respects were no other 
than two fine moose. Then was his Tennessee vocabulary 
too limited to express his self-disgust. 
Here is one of Mesoba's exploits with a caribou: "One 
time 1 out with my wife I see it de caribou in de lake. I 
jump in my canoe and paddle out. I catch it de caribou 
by tail. Oh, dat caribou he swim hard. I hang on, but 
I not know what I can do next. At las' I take it my knife 
and stab it de caribou in de side. Dat caribou he not die 
for 'bout an hour, I guess. He swim all over de lake. 
My wife she's awful 'fraid I'll get drown." 
Mesoba has a great bear dog: "Dat dog he find it four^ 
teen bears for me las' year. When wind blow he smell 
it de wind, den run to de woods and go dat way in de 
snow (pawing with his hands). I come and pull it back 
de brush and look in, I see it de bear sleep in dere. Den 
I shoot. Dat dog he find it bear for me all de time." 
When we consider that bears were worth $50 each that 
year we don't wonder that Mesoba admired the ursine 
proclivities of his dog — Wabesheish (martin). 
There are two splendid falls on the Vermillion, the 
lower one of which is exceedingly picturesque. One is 
surprised to find a river so quiet as this has been, loiter- 
ing by its rice beds, now worked into such fury. But 
what wonder when we consider that a stream of such 
volume is forced down through a gorge whose sides are 
not more than eight or ten feet apart. But how, fond is 
Nature of contrasts. Far up these granite walls, in the 
crevices of the rock, the little bluebells wave in the wind 
and nod over the tornipnted waters, tender as tears of 
pity on the stern face of Justice. 
The portage on the Vermillion is a narrow and well- 
beaten footpath round the rapid, or fall. Often it winds 
tortuously up and down the hills, and is crossed by rotten 
logs and fallen trees. Over these we must toil with our 
canoe and luggage. But the carrying is not without its 
advantages, as it gives the canoeists a chance to straighten 
their limbs and bring another set of muscles into play — 
nor without its mental associations, for as we sweat 
under our burdens we remember that we are passing a 
trail that has been trodden by the feet of many genera- 
tions who have long since gone 
"To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the Land of the^Hereafter." 
The portage past, we launch again and slip away. 
When evening approaches, bringing thoughts of supper 
and camp, we drop in our trolling spoon and take out a 
couple of pickerel or pike, and when a suitable place pre- 
sents itself on the shore, we land. In a few minutes the 
fire is blazing and the tent is spread. But what means 
that path through the underwood? We suspect, and with 
pail in hand follow it up a few rods, and lo! a clear 
spring, welling up in the midst of a mossy bed. Oh, how 
appetizing are the sylvan streams and the tonic airs, and 
how subtle the flavors of the wood nymphs! Here the 
simplest dish is a dainty, and one stops eating from a 
sense of prudence rather than from a feeling of suffi- 
ciency. The supper over, story follows story, for where 
else in the world are stories told as round the camp-fire? 
There men, cut off from other society, draw nearer to 
each other, and memory, lighting her torch, leads us again 
o'er the hills and valleys of the past, now covered with the 
purple of enchanting distance. 
Of course we had a few bouts with the mosquitoes, and 
lost blood in the fray, albeit they were not as bad as I had 
seen them in other places, still one night they pushed the 
battle to the gates and beyond. I had been accustomed 
to think of the mosquito as a light-hearted little French- 
man, fond of the Provencal dance and fiddle playing, 
drawing his dagger on occasion, but without much malice 
aforethought; but I have changed my mind since I saw 
what befell this night at Vermillion, and henceforth I 
look upon him as an evil-designing man who lieth in wait 
for blood. A kind friend made me a complete covering 
of mosquito netting for my head, a kind of sack that had 
arm holes and fastened with an elastic cord around the 
chest. Clothed in this panoply, I looked out upon the 
enemy with that feeling of security enjoyed by one who 
looks out through the loopholes of a fortification upon a 
feeble antagonist. I even went forth to meet him as 
Goliath in his armor went out to meet David with his 
sling of pebbles. But to sustain the figure, he smote me 
between the joints of the harness. They entered at the 
arm holes of the aforesaid headgear. And even when in 
our tent, with the door covered with netting, they effected 
an entry in a way not easily found out, excepting by 
these resolute skirmishers, and about 4 o'clock in the 
morning we were compelled to surrender the tent without 
quarter. 
At the lower end of the Vermillion we met three men 
journeying back to Tower. They had been in the woods 
three months, and eagerly inquired as to what had hap- 
pened in the world of late. They had also lost track of 
the day of the week, and being informed that it was 
Friday they said: "We were not so far wrong after all, 
as we had agreed among ourselves it was Saturday." 
Passing from the reedy river, we find ourselves on the 
beautiful waters of Sturgeon Lake. And to pass from 
the former to the latter is like turning from the dull and 
dusky visage of a squaw to the beauty of that face that 
still haunts one even in the remotest solitudes. 
Here one beholds the forest in its pristine glory — the 
green trees creeping down to the water's brink and lean- 
ing over as if enchanted by the vision of their own re- 
flected loveliness. The rounded hills rolling away from 
the lake and covered by the tapering tops of the balsam 
firs, look as if all the churches in Christendon were gath- 
ered into one immense cathedral, and this was the wilder- 
ness of spires and minarets, while the white birches gleam 
in the shade like silver pillars in a temple. The lake, set 
with green islands, is surrounded by a shore line of 
granite, bended into innumerable bays, pockets, penin- 
sulas and points, that keep up a continued surprise of 
beauty as the canoe glides quietly along. 
But there is something for the ear as well as for the 
eye. In calm mornings the birds warble their sweetest 
melodies, the sturgeon can be heard plunging in the still 
bays, and a call sent across the waters reveals the place 
where echo dwells, while in time of storm is heard the 
unceasing moan of the forest, and the thunder of the 
galloping waves, as they break in white rage against the 
granite bastions of the shore. 
From Sturgeon Lake we pass into Capitogamoque, 
which is largely a continuation of the same scenery. 
Though in August the birds are not numerous in these 
waters, yet the gull hovered around on bowed pinions — 
the plover tilted and scurried along the shore^-the turkey- 
buzzard hung high in the heavens and the eagle occasion- 
ally swooped on his quarry. 
One afternoon in Capitogamoque we noticed a column 
of smoke curling up from the trees on the shore, and 
thinking it might be Chief Wakemup, for whom we were 
on the lookout, we put in, and found three Indian women 
drying blueberries. They had two courts inclosed by 
sheets of birch bark — there was a scaffold in each court, 
covered with wild hay, on which were spread bushels of 
blueberries being di-ied by a slow fire under the scaffold. 
One of them, an old one, who had more loquacity than 
beauty, smoked her huge pipe and cracked her jokes in 
Ojibwa, making the woods ring with her laughter. Her 
daughter-in-law stood near by in the undergrowth with 
her little papoose bound on its washboard cradle. She 
was a comely young woman with a good face and figure. 
But alas for beauty when yoked with jealousy; for Mesoba, 
who knew something about their family affairs, remarked, 
as we came away: "Her man he not like it any man talk 
to his wif<\ He scold all the time. He take it his fist 
and hit her in the face." All of which goes to suggest 
that if jealous-minded men must marry, they ought to 
secure wives with face and form as ugly as their own 
minds, if that were possible. But whatever the squaw 
may think of marriage, the average Indian would hardly 
pronounce it a failure, for go into one of their wigwams 
and you find several able-bodied men, squatting on the. 
floor, smoking pipes almost the size of walking sticks, or 
whittling, as a pastime, while all the women are indus- 
triously at work. When it is time to flit, she takes up the 
house and walks, while her lord and master saunters 
along with his gun and perhaps some other light utensil. 
Then while he enjoys his pipe, she rebuilds the dwelling. 
Some of the Indians think it effeminate in a man to as- 
sume these heavier burdens, and if he does, they stigma- 
tize him as "an old squaw." 
One thing that constantly offends the visitor is their 
dirty aspect. Living as they always do, by an abundance 
of water in this great soap age of ours, there is no rea- 
son why they should present such an unwashed appear- 
ance. I would that in our own day a new John the 
Baptist might take his stand by some Jordan in this 
American wilderness and preach not only repentance, 
but by all means baptism therewith and soap as well as 
water. 
I shall not soon forget the scene of quiet beauty that 
lay around and above us as we camped one night on a 
point in Capitogamoque. We put up early in the after- 
noon because of the strong head wind and heavy sea on 
which our canoe was tossing like a mere chip. After 
supper followed the camp-fire conversation, while a bird 
in a tree hard by sang to us like "an embodied joy." 
Then spreading our tent for a wind-break, we made our 
bed to the leeward and crept under the blankets, with the 
waves lapping the rocks below and "the red rising moon" 
looking down upon us, benign as the face of a mother 
bending over her children to kiss them good-night. 
"And there as a child in the mother's arms, 
O'ercome with sleep and with love caressed, 
Full far removed from the world's alarms, 
We lay in the soft embrace of rest; 
While Nature sang her lullaby song 
And soothed us to sleep on her gentle breast." 
From Capitogamoque we passed into Rainy Lake.where 
since this voyage gold has been discovered in such paying 
quantities as to cause quite an excitement. Even in the 
depth of winter there has been a large Influx of fortune 
hunters into this inhospitable region. And it is safe to 
say that the woods will swarm with prospectors during 
the summer. 
Rainy Lake empties into Rainy River, a noble stream 
flowing westward and forming the international boundary 
between the United States and Canada for eighty miles. 
Two miles down, a,t a magnificent fall, which lowers the 
river some 28ft., is situated the picturesque village of Fort 
Francis, an oasis of civilization in the heart of the wilder- 
ness, ninety miles from Tower, and 150 from Rat Portage, 
its next neighbor on either side. Here I bade good-by 
to my good canoemen, who turned again homeward while 
I tarried three days waiting for a boat. Fort Francis and 
the neighboring Indian settlement contain some 800 or 
400 inhabitants, Indians, half-breeds and whites, for the 
two currents of blood have met and mingled freely. I 
presume these half-breeds, when among the whites, feel 
like Indians; and, when among the Indians, feel like 
whites. But though this is a backwoods town, it must 
not be supposed that the inhabitants are all backwoods 
people. It was my lot here to form a very pleasant 
acquaintance with Mr. Phair, brother of the Rev. Arch- 
deacon Phair of Winnipeg, well known in the United 
States and Canada. Mr. Phair keeps a general store and 
does a large trade with the Indians in furs. Last year he 
secured fifteen silver fox skins, worth $100 apiece. He 
has never known a thoroughly black fox to be taken in 
these parts, and the general scarcity of these animals may 
be inferred from the fact that the Hudson Bay Company 
in London sold only seven the year before last, at $375 
each. One of the Company's trading posts has long been 
at Fort Francis, and is still in operation. Some good 
crops of oats were growing in the vicinity of the village, 
but an army of worms, moving down over the farms, 
threatened to leave nothing but the mortgages. 
As I walked forth one evening along a solitary road in 
the woods I heard a stir in the brush and was curious to 
know what it might be, but deeming discretion advisable 
till I should discover the nature of the game I recon- 
noitered for a space, while the little animal challenged 
me a dozen times by springing forward under the shrub- 
bery and stamping on the ground. At length, disdaining 
me as a contemptible, coward, he walked, off, when, 
emerging from the cover, I perceived a skunk with tail 
nodding like Hector's plume over his back. Had I been 
less cautious I can easily imagine myself retreating with 
the agitation of Macbeth and exclaiming: 
"Could all old Neptune's oceans 
Wash the smell clean from these clothes." 
As is well known, it was the policy of the McKenzie 
government in Canada to connect the east and northwest 
by a line of boats. A canal was then dug almost to com- 
pletion at Fort Francis to overcome the fall and stands 
unfinished till this day, for a change of government, and 
the construction of the great Canadian Pacific Railway 
caused this old "Dawson Route" to be abandoned. But 
the people of the Fort are living in hope that it may be 
opened up yet. 
After a wait of three days at Fort Francis I boarded a 
little steamer and started down the Rainy River. The 
Canadian shore is settled almost continuously, but farm- 
ing is done on a small scale. Our accommodating cap- 
tain, who had a barge in tow, being hailed by some of 
the settlers on shore, would swing his boat and barge, 
end for end, and land to receive, perhaps, a letter to mail 
or a kerosene can to be filled. He did it all in the most 
neighborly way without any of the "insolence of office." 
The Minnesota side has but few settlers. Throughout 
almost the whole length of the river an unbroken woods 
runs down to the water brink. 
Two Minnesota streams of considerable volume — the Big 
Fork and the Little Fork — give their tribute of water and 
logs to the Rainy River, for a good quantity of pine is 
cut every winter in these parts and sent across the Lake 
of the Woods to be sawed -at Rat Portage. 
Fine sturgeon abound in these waters, some of them 
weighing nearly 1001bB., and the stories told of their 
capture are in proportion. I shall not take the risk of 
repeating any of them. But suffice it to say, that when 
a party of exploiters drives one of these piscatorial 
giants into shoal water, and then one of the party, with 
either more courage or less experience than the others, 
gets in, takes the fish by the gills and tries to land him, 
there ensues a side-splitting comedy for the onlookers. 
One day took us down the Rainy River and the next 
morning we found ourselves tossing on the Lake of the 
Woods. The sea ran high; we were in the trough of the 
waves; and our attempts at our toilet might have seemed 
highly comical were it not for those solemn admonitions 
from within that sent us back several times to our berth. 
The cook had the pots tied upon the stove to keep them 
in place. But when we reached the islands we found quiet 
water. 
Roughly speaking, the Lake of the Woods is about 
