A Rip Van Winkle of the North 
A Camp-Fire Yarn Based on a Tradition Handed 
Down by the Montagnais Indians 
By W. J. BIGNELL 
O UTSIDE the flapping and shivering tent, 
the crash of falling branches and, occas- 
-. t ,, ionally, a mighty roar which told of 
the rending of a patriarch of the forest. “La 
tempete du nord” had held us for two days in 
its fierce clutches and was likely to finish its 
traditional three without abating one jot of its 
fury. 
Even with the protection of the forest noth¬ 
ing could be seen from the tent door but a 
wide whirling and eddying of snow; and when, 
before making things snug for the night, Johnny, 
our camp factotum, set out on his last trip to 
the water-hole, his snowshoe tracks were but 
momentary depressions in the earth’s soft cover¬ 
ing. 
We stoked up the little tin stove till the regu¬ 
lar short puff-puff-puff of the draft brought it 
to a white heat. After we had dispatched our 
ragout of pork, partridge, caribou, ship biscuit, 
onions and all other available odds and ends of 
food which the camp cuisine boasted, we set¬ 
tled down for the evening. 
Our checkerboard—fashioned with the aid of 
an axe and some candle black—did not long 
hold our attention, so after a time, by tacit con¬ 
sent, we fell back on the never-failing delights 
of story telling, our subjects dealing ever with 
life in the Northern wilds or with traditions 
kept alive by camp-fire sociability. Each in his 
turn contributed some marvelous account, the 
•narrator always meeting with a generous meas¬ 
ure of gratifying exclamations—surprise, won¬ 
der, admiration and sympathy—at the denoue¬ 
ment of each incident. Encouraged by these 
friendly demonstrations, we rose to higher and 
higher flights of fancy, each determined to re¬ 
late a story that should leave all former narra¬ 
tives in the background. If scepticism existed, 
one could detect it in no other way than through 
the occasional furtive glances which we cast 
around the circle in search of possible doubters. 
Apart from these quick, sly inspections the fire¬ 
light disclosed none but expressions of apparent 
credulity and perfect satisfaction. 
Frequent demands on my own invention finally 
exhausted my ingenuity, and I fell back on one 
of the redoubtable Munchausen’s stories, relat¬ 
ing it as having happened to a friend of mine 
in a distant country. Johnny, the most versatile 
raconteur of the assembly, was for a time 
silenced, and, I hoped, overwhelmed by the 
miraculous nature of my rehearsal. But I 
reckoned without my host; he was merely 
searching in his remembrance for old material, 
or taxing his inventive ingenuity to produce 
a new story which should eclipse mine. 
Johnny, by the way, requires a word of intro¬ 
duction. A halfbreed Montagnais of superior 
type, a veritable child of the forest, he had 
early fallen in love with and married a French- 
Canadian girl, it being stipulated that, on as¬ 
suming matrimonial responsibilities, he should 
abandon his wild pursuits for those of peace 
and quiet -cultivation. Having some little sub¬ 
stance of his own, he had been able to buy a 
small farm, and had settled down on the coast. 
But alas for promises and good intentions! As 
soon as the winter’s wood was in and the family 
made comfortable for the rigorous season, one 
could detect in Johnny a vague abstraction—a 
certain restlessness and tendency to revert to 
tales of the woods. Many a furtive, guilty look 
he cast in his wife’s direction, and finally, with 
an air of desperate, aggressive resolve, he an¬ 
nounced his intention of starting off to secure 
a caribou or two, or perhaps a moose, for the 
winter’s meat supply. Those who knew Johnny 
best knew very well that this hunting fever 
generally involved a longer absence than his 
leave allowed, but as the proceeds from the 
fine furs which he brought back were always 
handed over to his wife, he easily secured her 
forgiveness for his delinquency. 
To return to the story to which my Munchau¬ 
sen narrative incited Johnny. It ran as follows: 
“One fall, my work is all finish, an’ I say to 
my ol’ woman, ‘Amanda, w’at you say if I go 
trap till Noel?’ Amanda, she not lak’ it first, 
den she say, ‘Very well, go my ol’ man, but 
get plenty pelleteries.’ 
“I pack my grub, put hevryting I need in 
canoe, an’ go fas’ for reach hunting-groun’ be¬ 
fore river she freeze. Mak’ camp one night an’ 
right away start for mak’ my snowshoe for win¬ 
ter. Den I shave my habiche, an’ nex’ day tak’ 
small hax and go look for leetle merisier for 
wood for snowshoe. Hafter while I see very 
big bear track. ‘Ha, ha, ol’ feller,’ I say; ‘no 
hav’ my gun here, but if I go back on camp for 
get heem I ’fraid you go sleep for winter while 
I'm ’way. An’ she look lak’ snow cornin’ queck, 
an’ I easy lose your track, so if I fin’ you now 
I keel you right straight ’way wid hax.’ 
“I foller, foller, foller track, an’ bambye she 
lead me hup narrow coulee I never see before. 
Coulee get more narrower an’ higher all tarn’ 
till I see cave in front. ‘Oh, ho, ol’ feller,’ I 
say, ‘you t’ink you go sleep for winter here, 
but Johnny he t’ink he wake you hup more 
quecker dan before you go sleep.’ 
“I not much lak’ go in cave wid honly hax, 
me, but I can’t stop get gun, so I cut pole an’ 
crawl, crawl, crawl, hall de tarn more slower— 
crawl, crawl long, long way, till she get more 
an’ more darker, an’ bambye I see big black 
bear wat’s mak’ bees bed for de winter. I 
watch and suppose I hav’ hard job for keel 
heem, an’ den all at once, before I can touch 
heem, I begin get ver’ sleepy maself. I say: 
‘Johnny better keel bear queck, or Johnny get 
too sleepy heself.’ I try for crawl some more, 
but dat’s no good; can’t move. Gettin’ hall de 
tarn’ ver’ ver’ sleepy. Mus’ rest, and den don’ 
know not’ing. 
“After while I wak’ hup an’ I see ol’ bear 
w’at’s jus’ wakin’ hup, heem too. I get hup 
queck, but I’m get beeg surprise. I feel me 
ver’ ver’ weak, an’ I walk to houtside, cos’ I m 
feel too weak for keel ol’ bear. When I get 
hout I’m fin’ de sun ver’ strong. She’s hurt 
my heyes. When I was go sleep snow was 
seex inch deep; now she’s four feet deep an’ 
melt all de tarn’ wid hot sun. Den I begin, for 
shake, I’m so scart. Hear fonny noise, too, lak’ 
water run. Bambye I feel my face. She’s full 
of ver’ long hair. I begin for shake some more, . 
ver’ much hafraid. Bapteme! mus’ hav’ slep 
wid ol’ bear hall winter, an’ now she was spring! 
“I tak’ my hax an’ cut sapin branch for mak’ 
snowshoe de bes’ I’ll be hable. I tie heem wid 
fish line I hav’ in pocket an’ mak’ so I can walk j 
on snow. But I'm ver’ ver’ weak, me, an’ de 
snowshoe ver’ ver’ bad, so I have awful troub 
for get to my camp. When I was go sleep de 
river she’s low. Now she’s ver’ high. I fin’ 
my camp jus’ same as w’en I was lef’, only 
someone she’s been dere an’ stop; mebbe two, 
t’ree, four day. I’m not feel ver’ hungry, only 
jus’ weak, so I heat leetle w’at I fin’ in my 
camp an’ den I’ll go for sleep some more.. 
“Nex’ day I feel better an’ lot more hun¬ 
grier, so I heat beeg lot. Den go for get some 
wood for mak’ me good snowshoe. Affer I get 
snowshoe hall feenish I tak’ ma gun an’ go for 
fin’ ol’ bear some more. I fin’ heem all right 
an’ keel heem too. Den I come back to ma 
camp wid de ol’ feller on ma back. Den I mak’ 
pack-luggage, flamb my canoe an’ start for chez 
nous. W’en I get near ’ome she’s awful dark 
night, but I don’ wait for nex’ day; jus’ go 
queck to ma house an’ fin’ hevryt’ing hall dark. 
“I hit on de door an’ bambye ma ol’ woman 
she come wid de lamp an’ open de door. W’en I 
