I began packing my gear in Oregon with this exciting phrase running through my mind.
On this occasion Carnegie Museum of Pittsburgh was sending another expedition to Hudson Bay under the leadership of the veteran ornithologist W. E. Clyde Todd. I was to be his assistant and collect museum specimens—I, only a novice in preparing specimens, although I had practiced it informally for several years. Here was my chance to go north, to see, to learn, to find out!
Late in May we arrived in Cochrane, Ontario, the end of train travel and the other mechanics of civilization. There we met our two Ojibway Indian guides, Paul Commanda and Jack. When I saw them walking taciturn and expressionless in the village of Cochrane, the white man’s domain, they did not seem impressive. Were these two to take us to the Far North?
After a few days we made our start. We and our equipment were taken out to the bank of the Bell River, where the eighteen-foot Peterborough freight canoe was waiting. Here in their own domain, the Indians came alive. Paul, the chief guide, slim and athletic, took charge of the loading. Jack (whom we somehow called “Jocko”), tall and capable, was equally efficient.
I looked around. We were on the bank of a river thickly flanked by spruce forest as far as one could see. This was our “jumping-off place!” Before us, stretching far into the north, lay the unknown.
The canoe loaded, we got in—Paul in the bow, Jocko in the stern, and Mr. Todd and I in the center. All we two had to do was paddle; the Indians would guide the canoe.
From now through all the summer months, the canoe would be our home, along with the simple camp we would make each night. As I look back now to that memorable first trip, I tend to ignore the scientific data we gathered, the specimens we collected, important as these were. There lingers much more clearly the remembrance of those many days of canoe travel— the lakes we crossed, the rivers we went down, the water, the rapids, the inviting shorelines. Added to this was the thrill of noting and collecting birds along the way. Each night I also put out mouse traps, and altogether we made a collection of data and skins that would add to the fund of such knowledge in the museum. But aside from the necessary work for which expeditions are sent out, there are impressions one gets which seem aimless at the time but which add much to the personal value of a remembered journey.
I remember I found out something about myself that first day—a surprise to me. I had thought I was an expert with the canoe. That was at least one thing I could feel familiar with, for I had had years of experience on the Red River in Minnesota. We boys had even built our own canoe, using barrel hoops for ribs, with a covering of sturdy wheat sacks, which were in common use at that time. But here on the Bell River I soon saw something different. We had a long way to travel, and our Indian guides were really going places. Their paddle strokes were quick and powerful, and we all had to keep the fast rhythm set by Paul in the bow. How different from the lazy Sunday-afternoon kind of canoeing! Nothing was said. The Indians set the pace, and in time we got used to it. This was canoe travel in wilderness. The canoe was an Indian invention and these Indians knew how to use it.
As we slid rapidly down that river, I kept looking at the forest along the banks. What was it like in there? We had glimpses of birds, little ones, like certain flycatchers and sparrows which live in the north woods, and larger ones like the ravens. As we camped, I explored back from the river and collected specimens. That was my job, and I was eager to make good on this my first expedition. I remember when I brought in the first specimen, a ruffed grouse; how embarrassed I was as Mr. Todd watched me skin the bird! After all, he had only my word that I could do these things. On the other hand, he won my admiration when I noticed that he could identify every little sound a bird made. Certainly his notes were eminently authentic. Once in a while, whenever I had a few spare moments, I would make a sketch of a bird, in black and white or in color. Today these sketches mean a great deal to me.
We traveled along, got acquainted, found something to admire in one another. We were all different. I became very interested in the Indians, their skills and their characters. And they taught me much about canoe travel. The endless stream of water going down the river channel in varied country is not always placid. There are rough places filled with boulders and, downhill, the river rapids. All this was new to me.
When we approached and looked down on the watery turmoil ahead, I thought: “Are we going down through that in the canoe?”
Yes, we were. There was some conversation in Ojibway between the two guides, evidently over planning the route. Then down we went. I was grateful that the Indians were in charge. I just sat there paddling hard when they told me to and trembling with fear as our big canoe bounced around like a feather among the rocks, where water was pouring over, whitened by the speed and turmoil; we would bounce off a swell, meet another one, and ride over. Right away I learned to do what the Indians told me. We had to reach a speed greater than the rushing water in order to go where we wanted; otherwise we would drift onto the rocks, smash over, and the river would have its way with us. So, contrary to my instinct to hold my breath and hope for the best as a rocky lump in the water rushed toward us, I would paddle hard for greater speed, and we would glide by at one side. Time seems long in an emergency, but we were going fast, and it must have been a very short time before we would glide into a quiet pool below the rapids. It was over, and we were still afloat!
Our route was not all river travel. Sometimes we portaged across to a lake or another stream. I was glad the Indians knew where we were going and how to get there. All I had to do was paddle, carry a load over the portages, collect specimens on shore, write notes in my diary about birds seen along the way, and enjoy the passing Canadian scene.
In the diary I find the following notation for June 8:
“In the evening olive-backed thrushes, water thrushes, and a white-throated sparrow were singing, nighthawks were swooping, and an occasional chirp of some other bird was heard, making a pleasing combination with the twilight.”
What a varied life—adventuring on river and lake, seeking scientific knowledge, and enjoying beauty!
The lakes also taught me something, for I had always canoed on rivers. On the large lakes, where winds had the say of things when they came, we found it necessary to calculate carefully before starting across. Sometimes we had to stay in camp a whole day while the wind whipped up big whitecaps. Sometimes we would start traveling as late as four o’clock in the afternoon, whenever the weather would let us. But these periods ashore gave me an opportunity to explore the woods, prepare museum specimens, and sometimes make another drawing.
Those woods! In there were down logs, bushes and many kinds of plants, birds, signs of rodents—all that goes with a coniferous forest environment. Here was a forest exhibiting the true balance of nature’s process. Aside from the aesthetic quality of such a place, it had great scientific value in the emerging phases of ecology.
We had not been many days on our trip when I became aware that this northern wilderness was populated. This, I found, was canoe and Indian country. All travel in summer was by canoe, and the travelers were Indians and a few fur traders, with occasional inquisitive scientific parties like our own.
This was brought home to me vividly one evening. We had made our camp on the shore of a big lake. All was quiet, and dusk was approaching when I heard a rhythmic sound. I looked out in the direction it came from, and there appeared a long canoe with at least seven Indians crossing the lake. Their paddles all dipped in unison, and all the bodies leaned forward with each stroke, the sounds coming across the still water with strong, repeated emphasis. There, in the twilight on a smooth lake, was a beautiful symbol of Indian life in this north country, with the canoe and its inventor in one appropriate setting.
A few days later we arrived at a Revillon Frères trading post on the shore of another lake, with an Indian camp as part of it. The post surprised me, but I was to learn
