Canoe Life.

Summer in the Fur Land treads so closely upon the heels of winter as to leave but little standing room for spring. About the second week in April, the earth begins to soften; the forest becomes fragrant with last year's leaves and this year's buds; the little rills wander feebly riverward, and the wild duck wings its flight along the water courses. During the following week, the days grow soft and warm; rain falls in occasional showers; the thermometer varies from fifty to sixty degrees between daybreak and mid-afternoon. A few days later, the river, which hitherto has churlishly resisted all the advances of spring, begins to show symptoms of yielding at last to her soft entreaties. Tears rise upon his iron face, and flow down his frosted cheeks; his great heart seems to swell within him, and ominous groans break from his long-silent bosom. At night, however, he thinks better of it, and looks grim, rigid and unsusceptible in the early morning, as if slightly ashamed of his weakness. But spring, shower, and sun are at last too strong for him. All his children are already awake. They prattle and purl and pull at him, urging him to open his long closed eyelids, to look once more at the blue and golden summer.

With the coming of the delicate flowers and the vernal bloom of early May, he gives way suddenly and throws off his icy mask. Inanimate nature seems to caress him for the sacrifice. The wildflowers and green grasses grow down close to the water's edge; the bright leaves spring forth and fling their shadows over the flood; the balsamic pine and fir kiss the placid surface with their overhanging branches. Animate nature expresses its joy. The teal, the widgeon, the mallard float upon its broad bosom; the grey goose and wavy crowd its estuaries; the crane stands motionless on one leg, knee deep in the turbid tide; all the wild things of the water sport upon its surface.

The red man lifts his birch-bark canoe from its resting place and launches it upon the flood. It is as wild and beautiful as any bird of them all. Through the long winter it has lain beneath a covering of snow and branches; now, the wild swan and wavy, passing northward to the polar seas, wake it from its icy sleep. The canoe is a part of the savage; useless to carry the burden of man's labour, fitted alone for him and his ways. After generations of use, it has grown into the economy of his life. What the horse is to the Arab, the camel to the desert traveller, or the dog to the Esquimaux, the birch-bark canoe is to the Indian. The forests along the river shores yield all the materials requisite for its construction; cedar for its ribs; birch-bark for its outer covering; the thews of the juniper to sew together the separate pieces; and red pine to give resin for the seams and crevices. It is built close to the hunting lodge on the river or lake shore.

During the summer season, the canoe is the home of the red man. It is not only a boat, but a house; he turns it over him as a protection when he camps; he carries it long distances over land from lake to lake. Frail beyond words, yet he loads it down to the water's edge. In it, he steers boldly out into the broadest lake, or paddles through wood and swamp and reedy shallow almost over dry land in a heavy dew. Sitting in it he gathers his harvest of wild rice, or catches fish, or steals upon his game; dashes down the wildest rapid, braves the foaming torrent, or lies like a wild bird on the placid waters. While the trees are green, while the waters dance and sparkle, and the wild duck dwells in the sedgy ponds, the birch-bark canoe is the red man's home.

And how well he knows the moods of the river! the multiplicity of its perils, and its ever-changing beauty! To him, it is replete with all wild instincts. He speaks of it as he does of his horse, or his dog, who will do whatever he commands. It gives him his test of superiority, his proof of courage. To guide his canoe through some whirling eddy, to shoot some roaring waterfall, to launch it by the edge of some fiercely rushing torrent, or dash down a foaming rapid, is to be a brave and skillful Indian. The man who does all this, and does it well, must possess a rapidity of glance, a power in the sweep of his paddle, and a quiet consciousness of skill, not attained save by long years of practice.

An exceedingly light and graceful craft is the birch-bark canoe; a type of speed and beauty. So light that one man can easily carry it on his shoulder over land where a waterfall obstructs his progress; and as it only sinks five or six inches in the water, few places are too shallow to float it. The bark of the birch tree, of which it is made, is about a quarter of an inch thick. Inside of it is laid a lining of extremely thin flakes of wood, over which are driven a number of light bows to give strength and solidity to the canoe. In this frail bark, which measures anywhere from twelve to forty feet long, and from two to five feet broad in the middle, the Indian and his family travel over the innumerable lakes and rivers, and the fur-hunters pursue their lonely calling.

In the old life of the wilderness, the canoe played an important part, and the half-breed voyageur was a skilled rival of the red man in its management. Before the consolidation of the Fur Companies,* when rival corporations contended for the possession of the trade of the Fur Land, the echoes along the river reaches and gloomy forests were far oftener and more loudly awakened than now.

The Northwest Company, having its headquarters in Montreal, imported its entire supplies into the country and exported all its furs out of it in north canoes. Carrying on business upon an extended scale, the traffic was correspondingly great. Not less than ten brigades, each numbering twenty canoes, passed over the route during the summer months.
*The Hudson's Bay, Northwest, and X. Y. Companies.
The first half of the journey, over the great lakes, was made in very large canoes, known as canotes de maitre, a considerable number of which are still kept at the border posts for the use of the company's travellers. These canoes are of the largest size, exceeding the north canoe in length by several feet, besides being much broader and deeper. They are, however, too large and cumbersome for travelling in the interior where the canoe goes literally over hill and dale requiring four men to carry them instead of two, like the north canoe; besides, they are capable of carrying twice as much cargo and are paddled by fourteen or sixteen voyageurs.

The north canoe, the ideal craft of the summer voyageur, and which still plays an important part in the fur trade, is a light and graceful vessel about thirty-six feet long, by four or five broad, and capable of containing eight men and three passengers. Made entirely of birch bark, it is gaudily painted on bow and stern with those mystical figures which the superstitious boatmen believe to increase its speed. In this fairy-like craft, the traveller sweeps swiftly over the long river-reaches; the bright vermilion paddles glancing in the sunshine, and the forests echoing back the measures of some weird boat song, sung by the voyageurs in full chorus; now floating down a swiftly-rushing rapid, again gliding over the surface of a quiet lake, or making a portage over land where a rapid is too dangerous to descend.

Those who have not seen it can have but a faint idea of the picturesque effects of these passing canoe-brigades. Sweeping suddenly round some promontory in the wilderness, they burst unexpectedly upon the view, like some weird phantom of mirage. At the same moment the wild yet simple chansons of the voyageurs strike upon the ear:

Sung with all the force of a hundred voices; which, rising and falling in soft cadences in the distance, as it is borne lightly upon the breeze, then more steadily as they approach swells out in the rich tones of many a mellow voice, and bursts at last into a long, enthusiastic chorus. The deep forests and precipitous banks echo back the refrain in varying volumes; the long line of canoes is half shrouded in the spray that flies from the bright vermilion paddles, as they are urged over the water with the speed of the flying deer, until, sweeping round some projecting headland, they disappear, like "the baseless fabric of a dream."

But the winged passage of these birds of flight conveys but a faint idea of the sensation experienced on witnessing the arrival of a brigade at an inland post after a long journey. It is then they appear in all their wild perfection, and the spectator catches a glimpse of the supreme picturesqueness of the Fur Land. The voyageurs upon such occasions are attired in their most bewildering apparel, and gaudy feathers, ribbons and tassels stream in abundance from their caps and garters. Gayly ornamented, and ranged side by side, like contending chariots in the arena, the frail canoes skim like a bird of passage over the water; scarcely seeming to touch it under the vigorous and rapid strokes of the small but numerous paddles by which the powerful voyageurs strain every muscle and nerve to urge them on. A light mist, rising from the river, etches them while yet afar in shadowy outline, augmenting their symmetry, like a veil thrown over the face of Beauty. The beautifully simple, lively, yet plaintive chanson, so much in unison with, that it seems a part of, the surrounding scenery, and yet so different from any other melody, falls sweetly upon the ear. In the distance, it comes with the pleasing melancholy of "Home, Sweet Home!" and seems the vocal expression of the voyageurs' thoughts of their native land. On its nearer approach, it changes the feeling into one of exultation, as the deep manly voices swell in chorus over the placid waters the "Marseillaise" of the wilderness.

Nearing the landing, a spirit of competition arises as to who shall arrive first. The long canoes speed over the waters, like a flight of arrows, to the very edge of the wharf; then, as if by magic, come suddenly to a pause. The paddles are rolled on the gunwale simultaneously, enveloping their holders in a shower of spray, as they shake the dripping water from the bright vermilion blades, and climb lightly from their seats.

Canoe travel in the Fur Land presents many picturesque phases. Just as the first faint tinge of coming dawn steals over the east, the canoe is lifted gently from its ledge of rock and laid upon the water. The blankets, the kettles, the guns, and all the paraphernalia of the camp, are placed in it, and the swarthy voyageurs step lightly in. All but one. He remains on shore to steady the bark on the water and keep its sides from contact with the rock. It is necessary to be thus careful with canoes, as the gum or pitch with which the sides are plastered breaks off in lumps and makes the craft leaky. The passenger takes his place in the centre, the outside man springs gently in, and the birch-bark canoe glides away from its rocky resting place.

Each hour reveals some new phase of beauty, some changing scene of lonely grandeur. The canoe sweeps rapidly over the placid waters; now buffets with, and advances against, the rushing current of some powerful river, which seems to bid defiance to its further progress; again, is carried over rocks and through deep forests, when some foaming cataract bars its way; and yet again, dashes across some silvery lake with a favouring breeze. The clear unruffled water, studded with innumerable islets, stretches out to the horizon, reflecting the wooded isles and timber-clad bluffs upon its margin. The morning sun, rising in a sea of light, burnishes the motionless expanse with a golden sheen, and turns the myriad of dewdrops upon the overhanging foliage into sparkling diamonds.

But there falls upon the ear the rush and roar of water; and, rounding some wooded promontory, or pine-clad island, the canoe shoots toward a tumbling mass of spray and foam, studded with huge projecting rocks which mark a river rapid. It is a wild scene of wood and rock and water, but the voyageurs advance upon it with a calm assurance. The boiling rapid is nothing to them. All their lives long they have lived among them. They have been the playthings of their early youth, the realities of their middle life, and the instinctive habit of their old age. As the canoe approaches the foaming flood, advantage is taken of the back current created by the mad rush of the mid-stream, and flowing backward close to the banks, to push the frail craft as far up the rapid as possible. Then the voyageur in the bow the important seat in the management of the canoe rises upon his knees and closely scans the wild scene before attempting the ascent. Sinking again, he seizes the paddle, and pointing significantly to a certain spot in the chaos of boiling waters before him, dashes into the stream.

The rushing flood seems to bear the light canoe down with the speed of an arrow; the water boils and hisses to within an inch of the gunwale; and to an unaccustomed traveller, it seems folly to attempt the ascent. But the skilled canoemen know every feature of the rapid. In the centre of the boiling flood, a large black rock rises above the surface. From its lower side, a long eddy runs, like the tail of a fish, down the stream. It is just opposite this rock that the canoe leaves the back current, and toward it, the voyageurs paddle with all their might. Swept down by the force of the stream, however, they just reach the extreme point of the eddy; but a few vigorous strokes of the paddle float the canoe quietly in the lee of the rock. Here a momentary halt is made just long enough to look for another rock. The bowsman again selects one a few yards higher up, and a good deal to one side. The paddles are dipped once more, the canoe heads into the torrent again, and the sheltering eddy of the second rock is soon reached. Yard by yard the rapid is thus ascended, sometimes scarcely gaining a foot a minute, again advancing more rapidly, until at last the light craft floats upon the very lip of the fall, and a long smooth piece of water stretches away up the stream.

Frequently the ascent is not made without mishap. Sometimes the canoe runs against a stone and tears a small hole in the bottom. This obliges the voyageurs to put ashore immediately and repair the damage. They do it swiftly and with admirable dexterity. Into the hole is fitted a piece of bark; the fibrous roots of the pine tree, called "watape," sew it in its place; a small fire is made and pitch melted, and the place plastered so as to be effectually water-tight, all within the space of an hour. Again, the current is too strong to admit to the use of paddles, and recourse is had to poling if the stream is shallow, or tracking if the depth of water forbids the use of poles. The latter is an extremely toilsome process, and would detract much from the romance of canoe life in the wilderness were it not for the beautiful scenery through which the traveler passes.

Rapid after rapid is surmounted; and yet, with every rounding of point and headland, rapids and falls arise in seemingly endless succession. Fairy islets, covered to the very edge of the rippling water with luxuriant vegetation, rise like emeralds from the broad bosom of the river; white-winged birds sail about the canoes or rise in graceful circles into the azure sky and long lines of waterfowl whirr past in rapid flight.

But if the rushing or, breasting up a rapid is exciting, the operation of shooting them in a birch-bark canoe is doubly so, true, all the perpendicular falls have to be "portaged," and in a day's journey of forty miles, from twelve to fifteen portages have to be made. But the rapids are as smooth water to the hardy voyageurs, who, in anything less than a perpendicular fall, seldom lift the canoe from the water. And it is impossible to find anything in life which so effectually condenses intense nervous excitement into the shortest possible compass of time as does the running of an immense rapid. No toil is required, but as much coolness, skill, and dexterity as a man can throw into the work of hand, eye, and head. He must know where to strike and how to do it; the position of every rock, the sweep of every drop of water, and the combinations which rock and water in relative positions will assume.

As the frail birch bark nears the rapid from above, all is quiet. One cannot see what is going on below the first rim of the rush, but tiny spirals of spray and the deafening roar of falling water give a fair premonition of what is to be expected. The most skillful voyageur sits on his heels in the bow of the canoe, the next best oarsman similarly placed in the stern. The hand of the bowsman becomes a living intelligence as extended behind him, it motions the steersman where to turn the craft. The latter never takes his eye off that hand for an instant. Its varied expression becomes the life of the canoe.

The bowsman peers straight ahead with a glance like that of an eagle. He has got a rock or splintered stump on shore to steer by and knows well the only door by which the slope of water can be entered. The canoe, seeming like a cockleshell in its frailty, silently approaches the rim where the waters disappear from view. On the very edge of the slope the bowsman suddenly stands up and bending forward his head, peers eagerly down the eddying rush, then falls upon his knees again. Without turning his head for an instant, the sentient hand behind him signals its warning to the steersman; then the canoe is in the very rim; she dips down the slant, shooting her bow clear out of the water, and falling hard and flat on the lower incline.

Now there is no time for thought; no eye is quick enough to take in the rushing scene. Here peers a rock just above the surface, there yawns a big green cave of water; here a place that looks smooth-running for a moment, suddenly opens up into great gurgling chasms sucking down the frail canoe. There are strange currents, unexpected whirls, and backward eddies and rocks rough and jagged, smooth, slippery, and polished and through all this, the canoe glances like an arrow, dips like a wild bird down the wing of the storm; now slanting with a strange side motion from a rock, as if with an instinctive shrinking from its presence; now perched upon the very edge of a green cavern, with one foot almost in a watery grave, as it were; now breaking through a backward eddy, as if eager to run its wild race.

Oftentimes a huge rock, time-stained and worn, stands full amid the channel, seeming to present an obstacle from which escape is impossible. The canoe rushes full toward it, and no human power can save it from being dashed to pieces. Stay! there is just one power that can do it, and that is provided by the rock itself. No skill of man could run the canoe onto that rock! The fierce current splits upon it, and a wilder sweep of water rushes off both its polished sides than onto them. The instant the canoe touches that sweep it dashes off with redoubled speed. The jagged rock is a haven of safety compared to the treacherous whirlpool and twisting billow.

All this time, not a word is spoken; but now and again there is a quick convulsive twist of the bow paddle to edge far off some rock, to put her full through some boiling billow, to hold her steady down the slope of some thundering chute. All this is wildlife if you will; but how tame and bare the simple narrative of these facts appears beside their actual realization in a north canoe manned by dusky voyageurs!

But the old canoe life of the Fur Land is rapidly passing away. The unpicturesque Mackinaw boat has usurped the place of the birch-bark canoe, and the forests no longer echo the refrain of the voyageur's boat song. The passage of three or four canoes once or twice a year is all that breaks the silence of the scene. In many, a once well-beaten pathway, nought save narrow trails over the portages, and rough wooden crosses over the graves of travellers who perished by the way, remain to mark the roll of the passing.