We stopped there to camp.
After a while I paddled out on the lake with our empty canoe to photograph the shore. I had given little attention to an offshore wind until I wanted to return to camp. Then I was in trouble. The canoe bow rose high in the air; sitting in the stern, with the wind swinging it one way and then another, I found I had a real problem. Just then I noticed a row of Indian women standing on the shore watching this inexperienced white man trying to make the canoe do what he wanted it to. This scene did not help my morale. I was sure the stern of a canoe was the proper place from which to steer it. Struggling desperately, I finally managed to make long slants with the wind on the quarter and eventually reached shore. Paul waited there to help me beach the canoe. He used one of the nicknames he and Jocko had given me as he said quietly: “Baptiste, next time just get in the bow, kneel down, and paddle right in to shore.”
Each day was different. One day I wrote in my journal: “Painted a violet.” Another time: “Sketched a nighthawk.”
We found nests of ravens. One day’s notation: “Camped on Sugar Loaf portage. An Indian camp there—two women, three children, and some dogs. The men were off after supplies.”
One day we were going down through the tumbling waters and big waves of another rapids. We were having a lot of experience with white water, and I was getting used to it, but I was still apprehensive each time we went into it. We were paddling hard in this one, and I watched each wave closely as it approached us. Then I heard Jocko’s quiet but urgent voice behind me:
“Baptiste! Give me your paddle!”
Without looking I reached my paddle back and felt his hand take it. I just sat there, watching the white water around us. Soon we were safe in the quiet water below, and we all relaxed. The others had been so intent on the canoe problem before us that they had not heard Jocko’s request. Now we learned that halfway down his paddle had broken in two—and he in the important position in the canoe! I was glad I had passed my paddle very quickly in response to his quiet request.
One day Paul surprised me. I don’t remember exactly what our conversation was—possibly I was making a confession to him, with whom I had become pretty chummy, but I remember not wanting the others to know how scared I was in rapids. Paul made the statement, “I never go through a rapids without being scared. I know just how little it takes!” Paul, of all people—our chief guide, who made his living running rapids! I have often remembered his words, especially when, years later, I was climbing a high mountain in the Rockies with an experienced climber and guide, who admitted his fear when he negotiated narrow ledges with a sheer drop of hundreds of feet. At any rate, my own fear of the rapids seemed more reasonable after Paul’s remark.
We had been about a month on the way when, on June 26, we reached Rupert House, a prominent Hudson Bay fur trading post on James Bay. We were through the forested canoe country and had reached salt water. Now new plans had to be made. There were Indians at this post, some white people, dogs, buildings—something different in this great expanse of wild country. But here, too, while others were preparing for our further trip, I kept busy collecting specimens. I found pet birds and a pet fox living with the Indians, and many sled dogs. Truly we had reached the north country.
I find in my notes for July 2:
“In the muskeg I heard a fine, long-drawn, ‘squeaky’ cheep and followed it up. When I finally found the bird, it proved to be a hermit thrush. In the evening I went out again and found one singing in the top of a spruce—one of the finest songs I have heard. Everything else was still, with only the muskeg all around and the softening glow of the sunset. The bird itself stood out boldly against the sky, as if it intended to have an audience.”
Little beautiful things—big plans—but here was human living in the wilderness. Before us, to the north, was Hudson Bay country.
At Rupert House we had to make new plans. Our chief guide, Paul, with whom I had become very friendly, was not feeling well. He had a chance to go to Charlton Island, in James Bay, where there was a small community with a doctor. We hated to have Paul leave us but agreed that he ought to go. To take his place, we obtained the services of William Morrison, who had been a guide in Labrador and was experienced. On the advice of local people, we also obtained a larger canoe, twenty-one feet long.
In the few days at Rupert House I saw a way of life all new to me. The Cree Indians lived here in colorful tipis; I could not resist making a watercolor sketch of one, with an Indian woman entering it. There were sled dogs, including some small ones said to be the original type of “Indian dogs.” I never had a chance to investigate this further, but I did see an Indian family that had a captive fox. It aroused a kindred feeling, for once as a boy in Minnesota I had kept a fox in a cage. Did these Indians have the habit of keeping pets? I wondered.
On the day of departure—July 3—we set out in our twenty-one-foot seagoing canoe. This was different. Gone was the intimacy of rivers and lakes, and even the rapids which I had enjoyed being frightened in. Now, stretching out before us to the far horizon in the north, was salt water, the biggest “lake” we had yet ventured out upon. What would it be like up there?
The weather treated us well, but we had our share of rolling waves to contend with. Occasionally, when we had a fair wind, we put up a sail. A sail on a canoe! That was also new to me—another instance of my inexperience. In the evening we went ashore to camp. That, at least, was familiar routine, and a woodsy environment that was homelike. Each night found us camped at the edge of the forest, after a day on the open sea.
In a few days we reached East Main, another Hudson Bay trading post up the coast. We stayed over for a day there, while Mr. Todd and I identified birds and put up specimens. There was always a crowd of Indians watching us stuff the small birds. What would the white men think of next! But here, for some reason, the Indian girls were very shy. One group I met fled back to their village. Were they afraid of me? A number of us were gathered one day in one of the houses where there happened to be several Indian girls. They crowded into a corner like frightened wild creatures and would not even look up. Was I beginning to learn about the Cree Indians?
Again we packed into our canoe and continued on up the coast. My journal says little about this day—July 10—but it has become a spectacular day in my Hudson Bay memories. The day had seemed long and monotonous. We were continually paddling against a head wind and fighting moderate waves, one after another, hour after hour. Willie, who must have known where to go, told us we were far from the usual route of travel. But he thought this was the best way, and the rest of us relied on his judgment.
Eventually we saw ahead of us a small island. When we reached the lee of this little bit of land, we decided to go ashore to rest a bit, for we were tired from our long battle with the waves. As always, we took the paddles with us when we stepped out, and I took with me the skinning outfit, including a coil of wire.
It took me only a few minutes to explore this little treeless bit of land, as we all scattered to stretch our legs. I saw one pair of willow ptarmigan, but there was not much else. To make use of the spare time ashore, Mr. Todd and I settled down to prepare some specimens. There were always some waiting to be taken care of, and we had to make use of all the time when we were not traveling.
A little later, as we sat there busy with the specimens, I happened to look up. “Look there!” I exclaimed.
There went our canoe, drifting serenely away! For a moment I was fascinated by that widening gap of water. Then suddenly the thought struck me—it was I who must act, for I was the only swimmer in the party.
I jumped up and called the guides, who came rushing up, shouting in their own tongue. Once I was on the move, the brief moment of consternation was gone. I felt relieved, almost joyous, for that should not
