fugitive canoe. The two Indians paddled on. It was no longer a race—they only had to reach the stranded canoe. When they boarded it with paddles, all was under control once more.
It is interesting, at a time of more leisure, to appraise such an experience. At one moment all seemed against us—we must fail. But I did get back to the island alive. More important, we had taken paddles with us ashore, there happened to be a few driftwood logs on the beach, I had taken ashore a coil of wire, and above all, our guides had seen the possibilities and used their ingenuity to save our lives. All these details had worked to effect our rescue. How can one understand such things?
For several days that little island was home, this time with the canoe well up on the beach. I was in bed, recovering from all the seawater I had swallowed, until on the second day Mr. Todd brought me a big cup of cocoa. That settled my system, and next day we continued our journey northward, once more taking note of bird life and looking forward to normal adventures.
How different things can be! A few days later we camped on a rocky shore, and I see in my diary that at this camp I was painting flowers. That evening I wrote:
“The sun was setting behind the island as we landed; the little dark, stunted trees were outlined against the colored sky. A flock of ducks flew by and with the gleam of the rich light on the water made a beautiful picture. As we came ashore, a robin was singing—a welcome sound up here. We also heard some white-crowned sparrows.”
We were now traveling in what ornithologists call the Hudsonian Life Zone, next below what they have named the Arctic Zone. At this place we found bear skulls hung in the trees by Indians, but I did not learn the full story about this until later. Also, in these waters I saw my first white whale— an animal I was to know better as time went on.
On July 22 we reached Fort George, another Hudson’s Bay Company trading post. Again we had the hospitality of the place and another glimpse of human life in such a wilderness outpost. Two days later, on Sunday, the missionary Reverend Walton held services. We all went to church, where were assembled all the Indians and white people of the village.
Here at Fort George we also heard of a tragedy. At Cape Jones an Eskimo with two boys had been out from shore, presumably in a kayak, when a heavy squall struck, and they disappeared.
We ourselves had to round Cape Jones, and a few days later we reached the scene of the tragedy. Here is another occasion vivid in memory. There was a northerly wind, and as we came up in the lee of the cape the water was smooth. We moved along easily, but out beyond the point we could see white water.
“Pretty rough water out there,” Jocko warned from the stern. No one made any decision to stop here to camp. Jocko didn’t feel that he was boss, and only made that mild suggestion. But when we got around the point, we realized what Jocko had meant. We really were in for it!
We were suddenly confronted by huge sea rollers. We couldn’t turn; we had to go ahead and hope to make it to a bay farther on. Each wave as it came on us was a problem. I earnestly hoped our guides had the skill to cope with it. I glanced over to the land, and there on the skyline of Cape Jones stood a row of Eskimos, no doubt watching to see if we would make it. It didn’t make me feel a bit better. Up high, then down low in the trough, then up again. How long could we keep this up? I was scared, but I kept on with my methodical paddling. Mr. Todd and I had nothing to do with managing the canoe. Then a human voice broke into my thoughts. It was Jocko, in the stern behind me.
“Pretty big swell, hey Shogenosh?” I heard him chuckle. When we kidded each other, he always called me Shogenosh (“white man”) and I called him Ishinabe (“Indian”). Apparently he saw how scared the head of the expedition was, but how could he chuckle at a time like this? This was serious, no question about it—but I felt better. I imbibed some of the confidence of my friend in the stern. And after a struggle which seemed hours long but was actually less than an hour, we reached the haven of the little bay we had seen in the distance and, with enormous relief, made camp for the night.
So it went—observing and collecting birds, writing our notes, plunging into situations where our lives were in danger, and at other times seeing only the beauty around us. We are not always the same, are we? The night before this emergency, encamped on an island, I had enthusiastically recorded in my diary:
“There was a beautiful aurora tonight, extending across the sky overhead from horizon to horizon. It made a lovely scene as I watched the glow of the tents in the distance, the wide stretch of the barren island, and the aurora overhead.”
There was something vital to the purpose of the expedition about Cape Jones. No matter in what direction we go over the globe, we find something different. Natural forces are constantly at work on our planet, shaping the character of different parts of it. One of the most fascinating aspects of our life experience is to try to understand these natural influences. We had just succeeded in getting around this cape, and when Mr. Todd and I had time to look around, we were both impressed by what we saw.
In the first place this high ground was treeless. Wandering over it, I saw an arctic hare in the distance; up to now we had seen only snowshoe rabbits in vast wooded areas. To the north of us we could see forests in the distance along the main line of the coast. We knew the arctic hare would not be found there. But here on this cape were a few birds and plants which were characteristic of the Far North. And here were Eskimos in their favorite environment of open country, living off the sea. In short, Cape Jones, jutting out into the sea between James and Hudson Bays, was a little piece of the true Arctic. Here was a piece of land reaching far enough into the sea to be influenced by oceanic climate and far enough north to display a little bit of true Arctic environment. Later I was to learn that islands farther out to sea—yet far south of Cape Jones—are also treeless and have an Arctic character. Such is the influence of the oceanic climate on islands far south of the normal limit of trees.
On a trip such as ours there are days and days of busy work. It was not a pleasure trip, but we had pleasures—frequent, unexpected, interspersed with the routine work.
We worked up the coast of true Hudson Bay, north of Cape Jones. A strong wind at our back sent us up the coast at a rapid rate. On the afternoon of August 6, we arrived at Great Whale River, the goal which had been set for that summer’s expedition. The whole Indian population stood on the bank watching our approach. As we stepped ashore we shook hands with every one of them. We were given a warm welcome by the trader, Mr. Maver, and were soon comfortably encamped.
There were the typical few buildings of a Hudson’s Bay Company trading post, including the small dwellings of the permanent assistants at the post. Here we were to stay until the little steamer Inenew arrived to take us south to Moose Factory. Our northward canoe trip was over. At Moose Factory we would begin another 180 miles of canoe travel upstream to Cochrane, Ontario—and then home!
But we spent some days exploring the backcountry at Great Whale River, coming on lakes, bluffs, and the varied fauna in each setting. And we got acquainted with the Indians. The Inenew finally arrived on August 24. The unloading was interesting to watch. Every Indian pitched in, carrying flour bags, boxes, and kegs. Little boys tugged and tussled with bags, or two of them together would roll little kegs up the walk. And so the ship was unloaded.
At this point in my story I should mention something about myself. At that age, only a couple of years out of college, I thought I knew everything. I found myself arguing with Mr. Todd about little, unimportant matters. He carried in his hind pocket a huge telescope. When he saw an interesting bird, he would reach back for the telescope in order to identify the bird properly. Each time I would tell him what the bird was before he could bring his telescope to bear, and I would feel very superior!
One day we saw a bird in the distance on a beach. “Greater yellow-legs,” I announced—but then wished I could retract my words.
“Hudsonian godwit!” he exclaimed excitedly when he got the telescope focused. This was a rare bird for us.
Mr. Todd made no reference to my mistaken identification, but he made me feel a little better when he suggested that I go get the bird, which I did.
At another time