FOREST AND STREAM 
753 
The Long Home Trail Under the Flashing Northern Lights 
It Was a Thousand Mile Pull Across the Arctic Wilderness, But This Little Band of Determined Men 
Came Through Safely Although Handicapped by Lack of Proper Equipment 
By R. J. Fraser. 
E were novices; we 
were green—had it 
been otherwise this 
tale would not be 
worth the telling. 
Also, we were 
strangers in the 
land, and, contrary 
to our fond expecta¬ 
tions and precon¬ 
ceived impressions 
of the great corpor¬ 
ation whose old 
Scotch hospitality 
and assistance to 
wayfarers have be¬ 
come traditional, we 
were taken in. Later dealings with the “Com¬ 
pany” and a closer intimacy with many of its of¬ 
ficers have formed everlasting comradeships suf¬ 
ficient to banish all prejudices raised by that first 
trying experience. The six greenhorns shall al¬ 
ways esteem the officers of the Hudson Bay Com¬ 
pany, bar those responsible for that torture-rid¬ 
den trail to Oxford House. To the Company this 
explanation is due for throughout my experi¬ 
ences in the Hudson Bay country I personally en¬ 
countered but this one instance of “raw-dealing.” 
We were “tenderfeet” when, on that dreary 
morning, we left our good old ship and watched 
it disappear into the snowstorm, homeward 
bound through the ice-laden waters of the Bay. 
Yes, we were tenderfeet when we landed in the 
Company’s land. But we were cripples all when 
we had fought our way out of it. I trust that 
readers will accept this,—my apology for the 
prelude. 
The home trail! None but the exile or he 
whom duty or necessity has sent into the far¬ 
away places can fully sound to its depths the 
joy in the word “home.” Nearly a thousand 
miles of snow wastes lay ahead of us,—from the 
icebound shores of the Hudson Bay to the end 
of steel near Winnipeg. The way for us stretch¬ 
ed over frozen muskegs and frost-stilled wind¬ 
ing streams, broad billowy-drifted lakes whose 
farther shores were dim,—a single, shallow rut 
haunted by the gaunt gray wolf and trod by few 
other than the brown-skinned lords of the wil¬ 
derness, winding across miles and miles and 
miles of snow. But for us it was the home trail! 
To forty-eight below zero did the mercury 
drop when on a February morning we left the 
time-worn buildings of historic Fort York and 
set forth on the first leg of our journey—three 
hundred miles to Oxford House. This was the 
dreaded stretch that had no house between and 
the veteran trippers cursed it and called it the 
toughest trail in the Nelson River country. Dogs 
we had, three teams of them, and long-legged, 
lanky drivers, full-blooded hunters of the 
Swampy Crees. The head guide was a French 
half-breed, Geordie Gibeault from the Churchill 
River, a gray-haired driver of many teams. A 
crooked legged Indian by the name of Wastiss 
picked the trail and showed, when we least want¬ 
ed it, a wonderful capacity for endurance and 
speed. Of the fifteen dogs ten were lame from 
the start. One team had just returned from a 
southern trip to Fort Severn and had been starv¬ 
ing for six days on the way. The husky has 
marvellous recuperative powers. Team number 
two had already been to Oxford House and back 
with the mail packet, three weeks on the road, 
and the dogs had broken a new trail through 
virgin snow. During the five days in which they 
rested up at York the huskies were employed in 
hauling firewood for the post. The third team 
was in better condition but would accompany us 
to Oxford only, where it belonged. Their crip¬ 
pled mates were destined to make the four 
hundred mile “mush” straight through to Nor¬ 
way House, at the head of Lake Winnipeg, the 
first post at which we expected to obtain relays. 
There were six of us and three were sailors. 
Bates, the cook, before he took this trail, had 
snowshoes on his feet but once. George Oleson, 
a Canadian Swede, nicknamed “Quiet George,” 
was the only one with any experience in winter 
travelling in the northern wilderness. To his 
magnificent finish the successful ending of the 
Lonesome Trail is due. 
The snowshoes and the moccasins supplied us 
by the Company’s factor were warranted to crip¬ 
ple all who wore them, veteran or greenhorn, 
and to them we laid most of our suffering. 
Footgear and clothing which we had ordered 
in the fall were sold over our heads, and when 
the time came for our departure none of these 
necessary articles was forthcoming. Instead, the 
culls, rejected by even the poorest Indians about 
the post, were offered us and we had no choice 
but to take them. We were in the factor’s hands 
and in the Company’s land. 
The factor himself stood by and watched us 
trail out from the post, smiling scornfully at the 
inexperienced Bates’ efforts to adjust the snow- 
shoe thongs. He laughed in derision as we bade 
farewell. “In three days you’ll be riding on the 
loads,” he said. “In five you’ll be on the back 
trail to York.” 
The predictions of disaster were true in part 
only. In three days’ time some of us were on 
the toboggans, but there never was even a word 
of turning back. 
Ten days’ rations were carried for ourselves 
and eight only for the dogs, which for the last 
two or three days must travel with empty bel¬ 
lies, for the loads were already overweight. 
Tents, on account of their weight and bulk, were 
prohibitive, and comfort must be sacrificed for 
speed. We made open camps all the way. Bar¬ 
ricades of felled trees held back the piercing 
north wind and spruce brush gave us beds. 
Overhead was the hard winter sky, whose my¬ 
riad scintillating stars were dimmed at times by 
the fitful splashes of the Northern Lights. When 
it snowed we buried our heads in the bags and 
slept the warmer for the deep, white mantle, that 
falling overnight, completely covered men and 
dogs. When wood was plentiful—which times 
were rare—a hugh fire was built to leeward. It 
burned for an hour or two. Then, supper eaten 
and clothing partially dried, we pulled on all 
our extra wraps and crawled feet first into the 
bags. Sleep was fitful at the best and after a 
night of alternate naps and shiverings we wel¬ 
comed the sharp exercise of the early morning 
start. 
At half past three, six hours before sunrise, 
we were aroused by the sound of the guide’s axe 
biting ino the iron-like frozen spruce. It was 
rising time. 
“All up, boys, all up! It’s thirty miles or bust 
to-day 1” 
