be and instead listened to Thompson exclaim about the beauty of the sun setting behind the mountains. Peter made no comment, but he had to agree it was a sight to behold, one he would someday like to paint. The gold and red streaks of wispy clouds drifting above the peaks and the shafts of light darting between them like golden arrows of hope almost made him forget how cold his hands and feet were. Still, he sighed with relief when Thompson called a halt and pulled out his telescope.
In the distance Peter saw only the tips of more mountains and no sign of a river valley leading through them. He slumped to his knees, suddenly weak with fatigue and the realization that it could be weeks or maybe months before they found the river the mapmaker sought. If they ever did. Peter wanted nothing more at this moment than to lie in the snow and stay there forever.
His thoughts were shattered by Thompson’s sudden announcement. The mapmaker’s eyes shone as he collapsed his telescope and said, “I’m confident we’re at the beginning of our last ascent in these mountains. Rum all around tonight.”
It took longer to pick their way down the steep trail they had made. When they reached the camp, Peter neither received nor wanted any rum. He longed only for his bed by the fire. Thompson, however, was still bursting with enthusiasm.
“This river I found with my glass we’ll call the Whirlpool,” he explained while the men drank their rum. “It leads upward, but due west, whilst the Athabasca trickles from a great field of ice to the southwest.”
“What is the beginning of the Whirlpool River?” Boulard asked. “Is it possible we must find our way across on the ice mountains?”
“I can’t be certain of its source,” Thompson said with characteristic honesty. “If it does come from an ice field, we’ll find a way around it.”
In the morning Thomas announced it was time to leave the last three horses behind, for it would be impossible for them to climb through the deep snow that lay ahead, and even if they could, there would be no grass or brush for them to eat.
Thompson nodded reluctantly. “Had we not the two moose Pareil and Côté succeeded in bringing down, we would slaughter one of the horses for food. As it is, we have no means of carrying more meat.” He shook his head, and Peter heard him mutter, “The poor creatures won’t find anything to eat hereabouts, either.”
The next day Thompson gave one of his rare speeches to the men. “The most wearying part of our journey is almost behind us. Today we begin the final trek up this stream, which I’m certain passes through the heights that divide this continent. I’m also certain that on the other side of these mountains lies the river we seek and plenty of wood nearby to build a canoe.”
Most of the men cheered at the prospect of travelling once more by canoe, but Peter heard DuNord grumble to a fellow complainer, “This mapmaker leads us, and we must follow like dogs.” He gestured toward the biggest mountain Peter had seen yet. It loomed just north of their campsite. The voyageurs had named it La Montagne de la Grand Traverse. “It serves as a warning,” DuNord said. “There is more hardship to come. I do not like this.”
In the weeks that followed Thompson took his turn behind a sled to help the struggling dogs as they climbed upward over endless rocks hiding beneath the snow. At night the snow was soft under their bedrolls, but the cold seeped through the tanned leather hides under their blankets to stiffen their muscles and make walking difficult the next morning.
Although the days were sunny for the most part, the air was bitterly cold. Then, after a week of sunlit travel, the sky darkened abruptly. Peter, only mildly curious, turned to look behind him. Above a deep grey mist that obscured the mountains a black cloud had blotted out the sun and was boiling toward him with incredible speed. Peter stood, transfixed. A harsh urgency in the voice that called to him over the sound of the rising wind broke the spell, and he sprang ahead to grasp the lead rope. Dragging his team and sled, he stumbled after Boulard, who waited beside a deep cleft in the mountainside. Inside the opening Thompson and the rest of the men were already tossing aside rocks to make room for their tents.
“Would … that we had … warning enough … to gather deadwood … to build a fire,” the explorer said, his words coming between gasps for breath as he shoved a heavy boulder into a dry creek bed that wove through the gap in the mountain. “I fear … this may last … for some time.”
Pausing for a moment, Thompson ordered Peter to gather the food from the sleds and store it in his tent. After he accomplished this task, Peter, with Dog beside him, plunged farther into the cleft to find Boulard and help him put up the tent.
The wind was less violent here, but though it was mid-afternoon the sky was as black as midnight without stars. An hour ago Peter had felt almost uncomfortably warm from the exertion of pushing his sled through the deep snow. Now he could feel the sweat in his boots icing his feet. He stopped suddenly, and a feeling of rage swept over him as he looked around at the dark figures working swiftly to prepare protection from the stinging cold. Rage, because he had been sure that after the weeks of cold, hunger, and fatigue, the journey would be easier now.
In a moment of absolute clarity, Peter knew this was the end. They were going to die here. And he didn’t seem to care.
Then a solid figure appeared through the snow, almost bumping into Peter. “It’s you then, lad,” Thompson said, his voice muffled by the scarf half covering his face. “Pass the word that each man must take his animals into the tent with him while they sleep. The dogs will help keep them from freezing. I’ll share a tent with you and Boulard.” When Peter didn’t respond, he peered more closely at the boy’s face and then shook his shoulders roughly. “There’s no time for fear, lad. Get yourself up ahead and help put up your tent.”
With the aid of a shove from Thompson, Peter forced his legs forward to the flat spot where Boulard was struggling to keep the tent from blowing away before he could fasten it down with heavy rocks. Wordlessly and with practised motions, the two of them managed to set up their shelter.
“Sacré Marie!” Boulard said as he stripped off his coat and shook the snow outside. “In my travels I encounter many storms, but none so bad as this.”
Peter, too, shed his coat, careful not to knock snow inside their tent as he shook it outside the door. Out of the wind and snow he felt better now — almost ashamed of his moment of panic. Even so, their lives depended on how long the storm lasted.
Sharing the tent with the dogs was surprisingly without difficulty. They seemed only too content to huddle closely together, leaving barely enough room for Peter and his companions to sit up. And at night, stretching out beside the three men, their warmth made sleep possible. Thus it lasted for three days.
On the fourth day they awoke to find the sun driving away the clouds. Even DuNord and his friends seemed more cheerful as they chewed strips of dried meat and washed them down with snow. There was no need to urge them to hurry as they packed the sleds and hitched the dogs.
Less than an hour after the line started to move once more, a Chinook wind began to blow — its warmth welcome at first, then creating a new problem. Their snowshoes as well as the sleds repeatedly stuck in the softened snow. They were above the timberline now, the sun turning the snow to a blinding white that forced Peter to squint most of the time and peer through his eyelashes. His shoulders and arms burned with the effort of keeping his sled from tipping from side to side as the yapping dogs slipped and slid and at other times half swam through the watery snow. Dog was always at his heels.
Peter was uncomfortably aware that a hundred feet behind him DuNord was lashing his dogs with a braided deer hide rope, cursing all the while. The noise made Peter’s head
