Where the River Takes Me Page 2

My jackrabbit feelings hop between dread and excitement, excitement and dread.

  Thursday, September 13th

  Musket fire, the booming of cannon, voices singing with excitement — the brigade is returning from York Factory, and earlier than last year! Suzanne is getting impatient, she has been calling and calling, Viens vite, toi! C’est Papa et mes frères! So I must hurry, because it is the first time Emile and François have been with the brigade and I cannot wait to see them and Papa Jacques. They will have stories to tell! And if not, they will invent them, the way Father used to do! Why didn’t Aunt Grace scold him for Exagger

  All right, Suzanne! Je viens!

  Friday, September 14th

  Nokum and I went for a last walk on the prairie — a last walk together, I mean, for naturally she said it would be her last. I told her how glad I was that she had come back to live at the Fort when she did. Otherwise I might never have known her. What would I have done, if I had not been able to talk to her, or hear her stories, or walk with her on the prairie? All these things I told Nokum today.

  She gave me a small bag of pemmican for my journey. The bag is the same as the brigade sacks, made of buffalo hide with the hair on the outside, but much smaller than the usual ones that hold 90 pounds of pemmican. She told me I could eat the pemmican whenever I wanted, or I could save it until I am as old as she is! (I know it does not spoil, but am unlikely to keep it that long.) She confessed in a whisper (tho’ there was no one about) that she had added an extra handful of dried saskatoon berries to keep me in good health.

  Knowing how precious that made the pemmican, I promised I would keep it safe and not tell a soul.

  She also gave me the pouch she’d made of deerskin as soft as the palm of her hand. It is decorated with dyed porcupine quills and smells of sage. I have never seen Nokum without it, and the fact that she would part with it made my eyes fill with tears — in spite of my effort to be strong. (“No tears,” says Aunt Grace. “Crying is a self-indulgence and best done in private.”)

  When I reminded Nokum that I wasn’t leaving until tomorrow, she said that now was the time for goodbyes because her “sore old bones” would not get her up early enough to see me off.

  I began to laugh, as she is always up before dawn, but then — I could not help it — I threw myself into her arms, my throat choking with sobs, and begged her to come with me.

  She sat me down, held me and rocked me like a baby, chanting a song that calmed me a little, though I did not understand the words.

  Later, as we were returning to the Fort, she explained that she could not go with me. The place is too far from her home and her family, her sister is ailing, there are children of her nieces’ children who need her, and the journey would be long and difficult. She was old and tired of travelling, she said — she did enough of that when she was following the buffalo. It was time for her to stay and for me to go.

  “It is your journey,” she told me, and I was not to be sad, for her thoughts would always be with me.

  She had been speaking calmly, to keep from upsetting me further, I think, but her voice started to break on her last few words and I could bear it no longer. So I gave her a fierce and final hug and ran through the gate to the Fort.

  Fort Assiniboine, on the Athabasca River

  Thursday, September 20th

  A new post! A new river! Et enfin, the chance to record my Adventure thus far in the last of the evening light. So I must not waste words or stray off the track.

  A good thing my Journal was at the top of a load, for if it had been at the bottom, I would not have bothered. I remember asking Father once if I could accompany him on a brigade and he said no, women and children passengers were thought to be annoyances, and the custom of families travelling with the men was no longer allowed unless —

  Mon dieu, I am off the track already!

  So to begin. We left Saturday morning with the usual fiery sendoff of muskets and cannon and hearty but tearful farewells. Everyone gathered in the yard to see us off — except for Suzanne (but I later knew the reason). Saying goodbye to my second family — Maman Thérèse and Papa Jacques and Suzanne’s brothers and sisters — well it took the longest time, because they each demanded a hug. My ribs were sorely (but pleasantly) crushed. And then they gave me a farewell gift — a ceinture fléchée that has been on so many journeys, they said it would keep me safe. Oh, quelle surprise magnifique! I hugged my ceinture and wrapped it around my waist — four times, for it is very long!

  “But Papa Jacques,” I said, “what will you do without it?”

  He assured me that he had other ones, and Emile and François each had their own, and so did Suzanne and it was her idea from the start. She could not have thought of anything more special.

  Besides Aunt and Uncle and me, there are two Clerks travelling with us — one going to a post west of the Rocky Mountains and the other going all the way to Fort Vancouver — and over a dozen men who set up camp, hunt for fresh meat, tend to the horses, handle the boats on the rivers, etc. And there are a great number of horses to carry our baggage and provisions.

  I did not see Nokum when we left the Fort, but a short time later I spotted her on top of a grassy slope with Suzanne and a few of her relatives. I was relieved that she was not alone.

  They called out their farewells — Suzanne’s voice rising above the rest — and I waved my ceinture and called back until they were out of sight.

  The best part of the journey, and the worst — because I am so sore — was that we were on horses. Father was given one of the Fort’s horses and sometimes took me for a ride, but never for an entire day. Oh … my poor mistreated sitting-bones!

  Aunt Grace agrees with me on the worst part, and her groans have been equal to my own. I feel stiff and sore in muscles I never knew I had. Seeing how we staggered about, moaning and grimacing whenever we got off the horses, well it must have amused the men, though they were too polite to say anything. Uncle Rory assured us that it would get easier, and it did, but only a little, and not until after the fourth day. By then we were too numb to feel anything.

  As for the route itself, we had prairie for the first couple of days, then squelchy muddy swamps, then dense woods with branches that whipped out to catch us off guard. It was new to me, so I ignored my discomfort as best I could and was endlessly exclaiming or pointing out trees or squirrels or birds (mostly geese), until Aunt Grace told me that I was growing tiresome, and that even the horses needed some quiet now and then.

  We stop at the end of each day and the men set up camp and prepare Supper. Roast goose the last three nights, thanks to the men’s shooting, and oh, the delicious pleasure of eating by a campfire in the wilderness under a darkening sky!

  Uncle Rory sets up a small tent for the three of us — I would rather take the buffalo robe outside and sleep under the stars, but Aunt says the nights are cold and dangerous. One night I was awakened by the howling of wolves! I confess to being frightened (and glad of Uncle’s snoring, thinking it would keep a wolf away), but what would an Adventure be without a little trembling? And now that I think of it, without sore muscles? So, Jenna, no more groaning!

  Fort Assiniboine is much smaller than Fort Edmonton, more of a post than a Fort, but it’s warm and tonight we sleep inside.

  Oh, I am weary. Tomorrow we leave the horses and go by boat to somewhere else and that is all.

  October 1849

  Jasper House on the Athabasca River

  Monday, October 15th

  Boats and tracking, boats and tracking, sometimes no tracking, just boats. Thank goodness we are done with the Athabasca River! Twenty-six days of going upriver — a gruelling expedition, for whenever the water level was low or there was a strong current we had to get out of the boats to lighten the load so that the men (including Uncle Rory, who is one of the strongest) could attach lines and pull the boats through the water. Tracking they call it, an arduous task! Arduous for us too, because when they were tracking we had to walk.


  In truth, I did not mind the walking, for it was something to do and kept me warm — a better alternative than sitting with Aunt in the middle of the boat, getting wet and cold from the river splashing up and the rain falling down — which it did for three days — and afraid to move a muscle for fear the boat might overturn.

  I felt a bit feverish about halfway through the journey and had some bad coughing spells, but did not want to annoy the men by moaning too loudly. Besides, it seemed churlish to moan when the men were sometimes tracking waist-deep in water.

  Aunt surprised me by letting me indulge in self-pity — I was careful not to overdo it — and she did not seem to mind when Uncle Rory gave me the odd sip of brandy to ease my cough and help me sleep. He told jokes and stories to take my mind off my misery and, when I was feeling better (after a week or so) he told me that Mr. Rowand maintained that anyone who wasn’t dead after three days’ sickness had not been not sick at all! After a few days I felt better.

  We followed the same routine each day — travelled upriver, stopped and made camp, ate Supper by the fire, listened to the men talk about their adventures on the brigades, and went to sleep in our little tent, bundled up in blankets and buffalo robes.

  What else do I recall?

  Days of rain and low-lying cloud or mist

  Thick forests of pine

  A mother grizzly bear and two cubs foraging along the riverbank

  Mountain sheep with enormous horns that spiral backwards from the top of their head

  Some tumultuous rapids that would have been thrilling had we been going downriver

  A delicious moose Supper — one of the men shot it last week and, as it was too heavy to take with us, we stopped and camped on the spot.

  The best part of the river journey was seeing the Rocky Mountains! At the first sighting everyone burst out with loud hurrahs, and now we are in the mountains — they are all around, wherever we look, like magnificent castles or fortresses towering into the heavens — so high that when I look up at their snow-capped peaks I wonder how they can still be part of the Earth — especially when all but the very tip-top is hidden by mist and cloud.

  I love having Father’s cassette. Whenever I open it I imagine him doing the same on one of his journeys. It smells of old leather, pipe tobacco, wood smoke, horses, forests — thousands of miles of his travels and now, some of my own. I like to imagine that he is making the journey with me.

  My mother is too, I just realized, for I have her moccasins in my cassette, and Nokum’s pouch. My whole family is with me! And thanks to Suzanne and my ceinture, I have my second family with me too.

  Tuesday, October 16th

  I have but a few minutes before we set off on the next stage of our journey — a climb to the summit of the Athabasca Pass! I have assured Aunt and Uncle and anyone who asks that I am much better and ready for the challenge.

  I like Jasper House because of the mountains. It is a small post with a log house and two other buildings and the man in charge is Mr. Frazer. The house has two rooms — one for Mr. Frazer and his family (a Cree wife and nine children), and the other room is for everyone else — men who are travelling through, men who work at the post and their wives, etc. Last night Aunt and I slept with the Frazers. The children are very friendly and I spent most of the night giggling with the older girls.

  Mr. Frazer travelled across the whole HBCo territory with his bagpipes as Governor Simpson’s personal Highland Piper, and last night he gave us a demonstration. My ears are still hurting! I’ve heard the piper at Fort Edmonton many a time, but to hear the pipes in small quarters — oh, what an eerie, ear-splitting sound! The poor dogs howled and howled — I think the very mountains trembled.

  We had a fine feast of roasted mountain sheep —

  Must put this away for it is time to go.

  Boat Encampment

  Wednesday, October 24th

  We made it over the Athabasca Pass!

  I am toasting (with tea) the men from Fort Vancouver who came up the Columbia to greet us, bringing the boats that will take us downriver. They had a crackling blaze of a fire waiting to warm us up and they had a good hot soup bubbling in the pot (made from pork and corn that they brought from Fort Vancouver). Not only that, they brought cheese, sugar, tea and a very large ham! It was not long before we were merrily feasting — the cold, wet miseries of the river crossings forgotten.

  Now I must record the mountain journey before I fall asleep.

  We left Jasper House the morning of the 16th and crossed the Athabasca River in small canoes. The men from our party and an Indian guide from Jasper House were waiting with horses — they had swum the horses over earlier that morning — so we mounted and set off on the route. My muscles braced themselves, for I have not been on a horse since Fort Assiniboine, and sure enough, they yelped with complaint.

  The route took us through dark forests, up cliffs, over crags, and tho’ each step took us closer to the summit, it also took us into colder temperatures and thinner air. Aunt and I had a little trouble breathing. Sometimes we saw mountain goats — shaggy white animals with little beards and black hoofs polished to a shine (or so it appeared). Such curious animals, leaping from one narrow ledge to another to stare down upon us. How I envied their sure-footedness!

  After six days, when we were almost at the summit, the snow became too deep for the horses so the guide took them back to Jasper and we continued on snowshoes. Aunt Grace has always found it awkward to walk on snowshoes and fell several times into deep soft snow. Once she looked as though she’d like to stay there, she was so exhausted, but Uncle Rory soon had her moving again and managed to coax a weary smile.

  He helped me too, at times, but though I was as tired as everyone else I didn’t mind the snowshoeing. It made me think of Nokum and the times she took me snowshoeing, the two of us walking like birds on the top of the snow.

  There was a small lake at the summit that the men call the “Committee’s Punch Bowl,” because many years ago when Governor Simpson reached the summit, he drank a toast to the honour of the HBCo and its London Committee and gave the lake its name. From that day on it has been a tradition, so we all had a sip of brandy and toasted the HBCo. I felt like a true Adventurer!

  Uncle Rory (who is very knowledgeable) told me that that little lake, no more than a mile around, is the source of two mighty rivers — the Columbia River on the west side of the mountains and the Athabasca River on the east. I can hardly believe it, especially now that I see how mighty the Columbia truly is.

  We had two nights of winter camping, whereby the men cut down pine trees, strip them of their branches and lay them on the snow to make a bed. They also make a floor of green logs and light a fire. I loved the experience of sleeping under the stars on those cold clear nights, listening to the sounds of streams and waterfalls — not yet frozen — and every part of me warm and snug except for the tip of my nose. I was relieved that the sky remained clear so we did not wake up buried in snow.

  Coming down from the summit took us only five hours. It was very steep, but breathing was easier and we could remove our snowshoes.

  There was no rest at the base of the mountain for then we had to cross a river — the Portage River, someone called it, and I would like to forget it. We had to cross not once but several times in freezing water and through a fast current and sometimes the water was up to the men’s shoulders! Uncle and one of the men carried Aunt across and the two Clerks carried me. I decided I did not need to have the Adventure of crossing on my own and besides, I was too tired and cold and hungry (like everyone else) to protest.

  Now I am warm and full. But too tired to write another word.

  Thursday, October 25th

  We have just been told that a small bag of pemmican has been stolen from our party’s provisions. A special bag, containing saskatoon berries. Thank goodness mine is inside my cassette —

  Is it? I had better look.

  Later

  My pemmican is sa
fe. The stolen pemmican was found in one of the men’s bags and Uncle Rory was called upon to punish the thief. He did so in the way of the brigades, by repeatedly knocking the man down.

  I moved away and didn’t watch when the punishment began, but I could not feel sorry for the culprit. If provisions are stolen, everyone suffers.

  I just remembered — a few days ago I told Uncle Rory and Aunt Grace how I was travelling with my whole family inside my cassette and Uncle Rory says, “Good thing your aunt’s still on her feet — your case is overcrowded as it is.”

  “Barely on her feet,” says Aunt Grace.

  Uncle Rory did some more teasing about the “brigade” in my cassette and made us laugh — especially when he tried to figure out where and how he might fit inside — and later Aunt told me that she often imagined the same as me, that “dear Robbie” was on the journey with us.

  Monday, October 29th

  The journey down the Columbia was spectacular. Three hours after leaving Boat Encampment we had to shoot the Dalles de Mort, deadly rapids where the river leaps between towering rock cliffs and crags for 3 whole miles. It was so thrilling my heart very nearly stopped beating! I was tempted to close my eyes like Aunt did — for to see how close the boat came to the cliffs was terrifying — but I did not want to miss a thing!

  Oh, how I would love to describe my journey to Nokum!

  After the excitement of the Dalles de Mort we had five days with no tracking, no climbing, no rain or snow, a fairly clear run downstream with the current. Oh, I have a mind to stay on the river all the way to the Pacific Ocean! Then I could cross the Ocean, and what an Adventure —

  But there I go again, off the track.

  Tonight is the last time we camp before we reach Fort Colvile, according to the men who have been this way before, and they have told me that tomorrow we will pass through the Little Dalle. They say it is not as terrifying as Dalles de Mort but has a great many dangerous whirlpools!