754 
F ORES T A N 1) STREAM 
But not until the crackling fire had begun to 
throw the sparks and cinders over bag and blan¬ 
ket did we stir. It took some courage to crawl 
out of the warm eiderdowns; the spruce “feath¬ 
ers” were now nicely smoothed out and “sleep 
after toil was sweet.” Facing the frosty air of 
the early morning was always a trial and get¬ 
ting onto one’s feet a painful exertion, the over¬ 
taxed muscles and cold-tautened cords bitterly 
complaining. But, once erect and in front of the 
blaze, the heat had an easing effect and cramped 
'imbs soon suppled. 
The tea pail was on the fire and after we had 
each drunk a mugful of the scalding beverage 
and hastily devoured a bannock we turned to 
help the natives with the dogs. 
“You watch your fingers, sir,” advised Old 
Geordie. “Dis harness will freeze them on you 
afore you know it.” 
True enough was Geordie! Most unpleasant¬ 
ly true! Lashing or unloading the toboggans 
was a painfully disagreeable task. The hard, 
rough rawhide was kinked and stubborn with 
the frost. Knots refused to answer to benumbed 
fingers, which were nipped with shooting pains 
as one after another the tightened nerves were 
shocked by every little contact with the frozen 
thongs. Handling lashings and snowshoe strings 
—or, even dunnage bags and blankets—froze and 
blistered the finger tips with a sensation and 
affect akin to burning. Each day they were thus 
nipped; each morning the Guardian of the Snow 
Trails greeted us with his cruel, freezing hand 
clasp. 
The Indians whose winters since childhood 
had been spent at such tasks seemed no more 
hardened to the exposure than we “greenhorns” 
were, though they endured in silence. They 
knew that each morning and evening this pain¬ 
ful hour must come. 
When two of the toboggans had been loaded 
and lashed we returned to the dying fire for a 
last warm up of fingers and toes. 
“You best take Wastiss and go on ahead,” ad¬ 
vised Old Geordie. “We’ll soon catch up to you 
with the dogs. He can take you over the trail 
in the dark all right.” 
Nothing loath to get into action once more 
we told Wastiss to pick the trail, back through 
the stubborn willows onto the river from whence 
we had dragged our leaden feet the evening be¬ 
fore. The crooked-legged guide slipped his feet 
into the lashings. Twisting his axe into the 
folds of his many colored sash and shouldering 
his gun, he stepped over the barricade of trees. 
Then the seven of us, muffled to the eyes, left 
the feeble glare of the graying fire and in close 
file plunged into the perfectly dead stillness of 
the winter morn, an hour before dawn. 
The guide turned to the westward and the 
never-to-be-forgotten trail was once more re¬ 
sumed. 
With no light but that from the dimming 
stars overhead, we plodded on. All we could 
see on either hand was the hazy silhouette of 
the straight spruce woods against the slowly, 
very slowly lightening of the winter sky; all 
that was to be heard was the regular swish! 
swish! swish! of the snowshoes as they sank, 
rose and glided through the feathery snow. The 
sense of feel was most in demand, the shoes 
falling into the invisible, packed impression of 
those before. The strengths of other senses 
were merged into this one, until gradually the 
eye began to pierce the heavy gloom. 
Fifteen minutes tramping and the rapid pace 
had warmed us through and through. With the 
hot blood again in throbbing circulation our 
spirits were rekindled. We loosened up neck 
wrappings, and rolled up the face and ear cov¬ 
erings of our woollen caps, the better to rid 
them of the frozen moisture from our breath 
that was slowly freezing to the skin. 
Slowly the gloom began to lighten and we 
straightened up to see again and take notice of 
each other. We were a row of hoar-covered 
ghostly figures silently plodding ahead under a 
Inured to the Long Winter of the North. 
canopy of starry-studded blue. Our now un¬ 
covered ears could distinguish far behind the 
tinkle of bells, a hoarse, muffled command, ac¬ 
companied by a medley of howls. Uniting all 
was the frosty glide of heavily laden toboggans. 
The sleigh dogs were on our trail and the whole 
caravan was again in motion. Thoughts of com¬ 
panionship loosened tongues and again our spir¬ 
its rose. After all we were not quite alone in 
this vast wilderness of snow. It was in mo¬ 
ments such as these that we forgot aching limbs 
and tortured feet, and the long grim trail ahead 
of us. 
Another hour and the sun burst forth, a gold¬ 
en red and yellow, through the scraggy tops of 
the avenue of spruces. A snowbird twittered a 
welcome. A fall of powdery snow close by told 
of a shaken bough and with a whirr of awak¬ 
ened wings, a jay flew by and ahead to arouse 
his sleepy mates. The “heralder of breakfast” 
we called him and knew that our feathered 
friends would be on hand. Unconsciously each 
man quickened his pace. It was during this 
short hour before the winter dawn that we were 
truly glad,—glad that we were living, glad that 
we had red blood in our veins. 
The breakfast fire was roaring breast high 
when the steaming dogs and hoar-covered driv¬ 
ers bore in sight and halted beside the trail. 
Scant ceremony and but little time was given to 
this morning meal. In less than an hour we 
were on our way again and the steady grind con¬ 
tinued. Lunch was merely a repetition of the 
other meals, eaten in haste and silence. 
In February, north of fifty-three, the traveller 
sees less than seven hours of daylight and some 
days when the snow fell deep on lake and river 
the progress was painfully slow. In the great 
spruce woods it was deeper and the tired, panting 
dogs struggled belly-deep until several of us 
plunged ahead and broke a better trail. “Keep 
ahead of the dogs” was ever our aim, but it was 
easier, oh so much easier, to fall behind and 
tread in the cleaner path made by those before. 
Some days the tally showed but twelve to fifteen 
miles—thirty must be our average. But the short 
days were often far too long and the long ones 
fiendish torture. Several hours after dark the 
weaker travellers would stagger into the radius 
of the fire-lit circle, stumble over the windbreak 
and fall exhausted on the boughs. Again, on 
the broad stretches of the open muskegs, where 
nought but stunted juniper grew, the guides 
would strike a heartbreaking pace and add mile 
after mile to the day’s run till shelter and fuel 
had been reached. 
We were three days out when Bates and Jam¬ 
ieson quit and we had to lash them on the loads. 
The terrible snowshoe trouble—the “mal de 
raquette”—had taken them in its deadly grip and 
they could do little but curse and groan. The un¬ 
accustomed exercise had brought it on. Starting 
with the toes the sharp pains crept up through 
muscles and sinew until reaching the groins they 
stabbed with the viciousness of knife thrusts. 
Two days on the sleds brought them relief and 
partial recovery and then it was Percy’s turn. 
An hour and a half after dark he staggered in 
among us. What little energy he had left was 
being expended in fruitless cursing—the snow- 
shoes, the country and the Company being im¬ 
partially served. His right leg was so swollen 
that the trouser had to be slit to give relief. 
This, the seventh night on the trail was the cold¬ 
est we experienced and there was little sleep for 
us under the soughing pines. The fearful grind 
was telling. 
An hour after sunrise we came to and crossed 
the Deer River. The climb down and up the 
banks was a painful struggle for the cripples and 
the sleepless night had already wrought havoc 
with the party. All that day progress was pain¬ 
fully slow and that night in camp with but 
twelve miles to our credit we gloomily discussed 
the situation. 
With pain-racked bodies stretched before the 
blaze we reviewed the progress of the four event¬ 
ful days. Eager and expectant, exultant in the 
thought that at last we were leaving that ice¬ 
bound waste, we had started on our way. Con¬ 
fidence in our ability to win out was not lacking 
