The Country Here Is Cut Up On Every Side With Caribou Trails; Deep
Worn Like The Buffalo Trails On The Plains, With Occasional Horns
And Bones; These, However, Are Not So Plentiful As Were The Relics
Of The Buffalo.
This, it proved, was because the Caribou go far
north at horn-dropping time, and they have practically no bones
that the Wolves cannot crush with their teeth.
Although old tracks were myriad-many, there were no new ones. Weeso
said, however, "In about four days the shores of this lake will
be alive with Caribou." It will show the erratic nature of these
animals when I say that the old man was all wrong; they did not
appear there in numbers until many weeks later, probably not for
two months.
Here, at the foot of Artillery Lake, we were near the last of the
timber, and, strange to say, we found some trees of remarkably large
growth. One, a tamarac, was the largest and last seen; the other,
a spruce - Pike's Lobstick - was 55 inches in girth, 1 foot from the
ground.
At this camp Weeso complained that he was feeling very sick; had
pains in his back. I could not make out what was the matter with
him, but Billy said sagaciously, "I think if you give him any kind
of a pill he will be all right. It doesn't matter what, so long as
it's a pill."
Of course "cathartic" is good blind play in case of doubt. He got
a big, fierce rhubarb, and all went well.
CHAPTER XXX
CARIBOU-LAND AT LAST
On the morning of August 1 we launched on Artillery Lake, feeling,
for the tenth time, that now we really were on the crowning stretch of
our journey, that at last we were entering the land of the Caribou.
Over the deep, tranquil waters of the lake we went, scanning the
painted shores with their dwindling remnants of forest. There is
something inspiring about the profundity of transparency in these
lakes, where they are 15 feet deep their bottoms are no more
obscured than in an ordinary eastern brook at 6 inches. On looking
down into the far-below world, one gets the sensation of flight as
one skims overhead in the swift canoe. And how swift that elegant
canoe was in a clear run I was only now finding out. All my
previous estimates had been too low. Here I had the absolute gauge
of Tyrrell's maps and found that we four paddling could send her,
not 3 1/2, but 4 1/2 or 5 miles an hour, with a possibility of 6
when we made an effort. As we spun along the south-east coast of
the lake, the country grew less rugged; the continuous steep granite
hills were replaced by lower buttes with long grassy plains between;
and as I took them in, I marvelled at their name - the Barrens; bare
of trees, yes, but the plains were covered with rich, rank grass,
more like New England meadows.
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