By Madge Macbeth, circa 1924
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE THIRD DAY
A moose crossed just below the Falls as we were peeping out of our blankets to face a thin Scotch mist. Breakfast was hurriedly eaten, for every fisherman was impatient to feel the rod in his hands, Some of the party undertook the beautiful six-mile walk to Orient Bay and were rewarded by seeing a deer and a fawn. The mail came in, brought from Nipigon by a runner, or by relays of runners. Four guides joined us. They had just come down from James Bay, and judging by the rapid-fire conversation that passed amongst the Indians, their arrival was better than the coming of a newspaper. Indians somehow have gained themselves the reputation for taciturnity, but no characteristic was less conspicuous in those of our party.
There was the incident of Friday and the fish.
Michel Friday or Mike, as he called himself, was a guide who instantly endeared himself to the lot of us. Why? How does one know? Who can dissect and tabulate that elusive quality termed charm? He was just Friday. That was all.
Several fine fish had been caught at dusk on the second day, and anticipating the scepticism of our friends, we determined to make pictures of our catch. The camera man had invented a tank - about which there was a good deal of jollity, for he demanded volunteers to get inside and create for him an improvement on "Neptune's Daughter." He even suggested our sharing it with a sturgeon and a couple of imported muskellunge!
When the tank was unpacked, we were relieved to find a small box-like affair only about a cubic foot in size. It barely accommodated one worthy trout.
Now, the fish that had been caught at dusk could not, of course, have their photo taken at that time of night, so with great trouble and back-straining, we built them a kraal or pen at the water's edge and left them to be photographed in the morning. At lunch time some one thought of those fish. The kraal was empty. The fish were gone.
The old newspaperman revived his sleuthing instincts, and ran the mystery to earth. Friday had eaten the fish, and it was only Saturday on the calendar!
The Indians never tired of the joke. We came to see something funny in it ourselves. At the mention of comestibles, every eye would turn accusingly to Friday, who bore the scrutiny with unruffled calm and a good-natured grin. We blamed him for a temporary shortage in jam, for the scarcity of caribou, for failure to discover a moose whose trail we followed all one morning. When one of the party was late for lunch, we even accused him of eating her!
And when he snared a couple of rabbits and laid them by for a succulent meal, the rest of the guides appropriated them during his absence, and explained that such was his punishment for taking the fish. Talk? Why, the Indians were never silent, except when sleeping.
In the afternoon, we broke camp and paddled a glorious fourteen miles down the river to Flat Rock, shooting several exciting rapids - including Devil's and Victoria - but, not fatally. We found an excellent camping ground at Flat Rock and availed ourselves right gladly of it, although this was not the spot originally chosen for our destination. Pine Portage, three miles away, was full - which is to say, its convenient camp sites had already been pre-empted by fishermen bound up or down the river.
That night, across a lofty columnar bonfire, I asked Nicholas John the meaning of the word Nipigon.
"It's hard to pronounce in English," he replied. "We spell it with an 'e', " he added, throwing in a little swank about his schooling.
I was no nearer my objective, and afterwards discovered that by 'pronounce' he meant 'translate,' and as for spelling Nipigon with an 'e,' the Indians spell it, like most of their language, exactly as suits their fancy. To hear them speak the work, I should call it Nem-be-gong, and a loose translation of my own is The Sea Without a Shore - this referring to the lake which is about seventy miles long and fifty wide.
TO BE CONTINUED
Saturday, 13 July 2013
Friday, 12 July 2013
NIPIGON - THE SEA WITHOUT A SHORE part 4
By Madge Macbeth , circa 1924
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE SECOND DAY
The second day was faultless. The sun had almost dried our little white homes before we had finished breakfast, and it took the edge off a keen wind that was more suggestive of October than July. Virgin Falls raced over glittering rocks like so much liquid malachite. The rapids swirled and eddied, a wondrous green foam.
Intense activity prevailed around Camp. We consulted fly books, called to one another for advice we didn't take, polished the lenses of our cameras, and up and down the rocky shore, to the soft whir of spinning reels, damp lines were hung from tree to tree like crazy cobwebs etched against the sky.
We fished from shore, and decided after a disgraceful dinner that reduced the stores alarmingly that a swim in the Nipigon would be almost as enjoyable as angling. Consequently, we embarked in our spacious canoes and were paddled (even the sportsmen, too!) out among the Virgin Islands, where, with a good deal of hesitancy, we plunged into the clear, cold water of the river.
By the gods, it was cold! For a few seconds after the body's first immersion, one feels an impulse to turn immediately towards the shore. But this passes suddenly, and the only consciousness is that of intense invigoration, tempting one to swim great distances. I found that water less cold was unpleasant and enervating.
On the way home, the Curious Gentleman demanded of his guide how he could keep his moccasins so soft and pliable, like those of the Indians.
"You take them home," advised the old man, in almost unintelligible English, "and get your woman to chew them. That's the way Nindians' are soft."
TO BE CONTINUED
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE SECOND DAY
The second day was faultless. The sun had almost dried our little white homes before we had finished breakfast, and it took the edge off a keen wind that was more suggestive of October than July. Virgin Falls raced over glittering rocks like so much liquid malachite. The rapids swirled and eddied, a wondrous green foam.
Intense activity prevailed around Camp. We consulted fly books, called to one another for advice we didn't take, polished the lenses of our cameras, and up and down the rocky shore, to the soft whir of spinning reels, damp lines were hung from tree to tree like crazy cobwebs etched against the sky.
We fished from shore, and decided after a disgraceful dinner that reduced the stores alarmingly that a swim in the Nipigon would be almost as enjoyable as angling. Consequently, we embarked in our spacious canoes and were paddled (even the sportsmen, too!) out among the Virgin Islands, where, with a good deal of hesitancy, we plunged into the clear, cold water of the river.
By the gods, it was cold! For a few seconds after the body's first immersion, one feels an impulse to turn immediately towards the shore. But this passes suddenly, and the only consciousness is that of intense invigoration, tempting one to swim great distances. I found that water less cold was unpleasant and enervating.
On the way home, the Curious Gentleman demanded of his guide how he could keep his moccasins so soft and pliable, like those of the Indians.
"You take them home," advised the old man, in almost unintelligible English, "and get your woman to chew them. That's the way Nindians' are soft."
TO BE CONTINUED
NIPIGON - THE SEA WITHOUT A SHORE part 3
By Madge Macbeth circa 1924
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE FIRST DAY
We were amazed to hear the splattering of rain drops on our tents in the morning. After such a night, it seemed incredible. However, no aspect of weather could dampen our spirits, and with the outfit furnished us, there was little that could interfere with our comfort.
This outfit deserves a paragraph at least. We were provided with tents, easily accommodating two persons. For the benefit of those who refused the luxury folding camp beds and preferred sleeping bags or mattresses laid upon the ground, there were tarpaulin floors. Otherwise, we used canvas beds, a towering pile of NEW blankets (none too many for the sharp cold nights) and pillows! We had a dining tent, furnished with a substantial table, and very comfortable folding chairs. We had also a Community tent, where a glorious fire burned throughout the rainy days, and where afternoon tea was served and coffee after dinner! We had a cook stove with which the "Prince of Wales' Jimmie" performed indescribably delicious gastronomic mysteries. We had bath towels and soap. I felt on more than one occasion that had I asked for a change of underwear or an elephant's tusk, my whim would have been gratified.
Confidentially, I might confess that there was some grumbling. The party included a few desperate sportsmen who resented our luxurious equipment and the sensation of being coddled. They up and spake their minds, and the rest of us were abashed, wishing that we hadn't written home to say that we were "camping." We avoided one another's eyes and felt like cheats - impostor's.
And we were not a little surprised to hear the sportsmen agree to try those confounded beds - as the ground was wet - and the next morning to hear them call for a basin of hot water!
We fished in the rapids from the shore the first day, taking our quota of speckled trout, and several white fish. The largest of the former tipped the scales at five and a quarter pounds, and evoked the observation from the jealous member of the group that, on such a day, anyone should be able to catch fish.
"In this downpour," said he, "they don't even know that they're out of the river!"
TO BE CONTINUED
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE FIRST DAY
We were amazed to hear the splattering of rain drops on our tents in the morning. After such a night, it seemed incredible. However, no aspect of weather could dampen our spirits, and with the outfit furnished us, there was little that could interfere with our comfort.
This outfit deserves a paragraph at least. We were provided with tents, easily accommodating two persons. For the benefit of those who refused the luxury folding camp beds and preferred sleeping bags or mattresses laid upon the ground, there were tarpaulin floors. Otherwise, we used canvas beds, a towering pile of NEW blankets (none too many for the sharp cold nights) and pillows! We had a dining tent, furnished with a substantial table, and very comfortable folding chairs. We had also a Community tent, where a glorious fire burned throughout the rainy days, and where afternoon tea was served and coffee after dinner! We had a cook stove with which the "Prince of Wales' Jimmie" performed indescribably delicious gastronomic mysteries. We had bath towels and soap. I felt on more than one occasion that had I asked for a change of underwear or an elephant's tusk, my whim would have been gratified.
Confidentially, I might confess that there was some grumbling. The party included a few desperate sportsmen who resented our luxurious equipment and the sensation of being coddled. They up and spake their minds, and the rest of us were abashed, wishing that we hadn't written home to say that we were "camping." We avoided one another's eyes and felt like cheats - impostor's.
And we were not a little surprised to hear the sportsmen agree to try those confounded beds - as the ground was wet - and the next morning to hear them call for a basin of hot water!
We fished in the rapids from the shore the first day, taking our quota of speckled trout, and several white fish. The largest of the former tipped the scales at five and a quarter pounds, and evoked the observation from the jealous member of the group that, on such a day, anyone should be able to catch fish.
"In this downpour," said he, "they don't even know that they're out of the river!"
TO BE CONTINUED
Thursday, 11 July 2013
NIPIGON - THE SEA WITHOUT A SHORE part 2
By Madge Macbeth, circa 1924
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE NIPIGON TRIP
But delightful as adventuring near Camp assuredly is, interesting as one may find the Indian Reserve with its Old People's Home included in the category of "Municipal Buildings," satisfactory as the sportsman will concede his experience into the little-known streams that find their source at the Height of Land north of Lake Superior, I doubt that any fishing trip on the continent is comparable in point of comfort, scenic beauty and piscatorial reward to that "up the Nipigon." Its memory will haunt me all my days.
We went by rail to Orient Bay, and there, in the amber light of evening, we set out towards Nipigon Lake and down through the exquisite Virgin Islands into Nipigon River.
Our regiment of guides was ready, two to each man. They tied their fleet of eight canoes end-to-end, and strung out after the launch like the tail of some curious sea monster.
The distant shore etched its rugged outline against the sky - rugged precipices, huge bluffs, undulating ranges of hills wooded by poplar, birch and fir, with here and there a little forest of slim white trunks softening the sombre green and climbing timidly up a darkened hillside. A beautiful break was Port McDermid, lying between two unsympathetic cliffs - a modest little village, very prim and very white in the coppery glow of late evening.
As we slipped between the Virgin Islands, a great pink moon flashed soft radiance on the calm water, and smiled at her own reflection. For a time, she followed us, just beyond the stern of the farthest swerving canoe. But after a bit, she sailed ahead and led our small flotilla, by throwing great splashes of silver in our path.
We disembarked just above Virgin Falls, as darkness engulfed the forest. Through a woodsy trail we felt our way, drawn by the rush and thunder of swift-flowing waters; and presently our little colony of tents gleamed amid the star-dust of a flawless night.
The voice of the Chief Guide summoned us to the water's edge. Noisily we trooped to a pine-crested rock, and silently we stood there, staring in awed fascination at the unearthly beauty that lay before us.
Virgin Falls in the moonlight! No words can picture the scene.
In a great ebony surge, shot with cold, white streaks, the river rushed to the twenty-foot drop where it fell with a terrible volume and silvery foam. A mass of spray like millions of dancing moonstones leaped upwards to capture more light; while below, the rapids churned and roared, tearing, it seemed, without direction or objective over and around the glistening rocks.
Silent, we stood, watching, and quietly we slipped into our blankets, rather excited by the crash and tumbling waters that drowned the music of the stars.
TO BE CONTINUED
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
THE NIPIGON TRIP
 |
| Sunset Lake Nipigon |
But delightful as adventuring near Camp assuredly is, interesting as one may find the Indian Reserve with its Old People's Home included in the category of "Municipal Buildings," satisfactory as the sportsman will concede his experience into the little-known streams that find their source at the Height of Land north of Lake Superior, I doubt that any fishing trip on the continent is comparable in point of comfort, scenic beauty and piscatorial reward to that "up the Nipigon." Its memory will haunt me all my days.
We went by rail to Orient Bay, and there, in the amber light of evening, we set out towards Nipigon Lake and down through the exquisite Virgin Islands into Nipigon River.
Our regiment of guides was ready, two to each man. They tied their fleet of eight canoes end-to-end, and strung out after the launch like the tail of some curious sea monster.
The distant shore etched its rugged outline against the sky - rugged precipices, huge bluffs, undulating ranges of hills wooded by poplar, birch and fir, with here and there a little forest of slim white trunks softening the sombre green and climbing timidly up a darkened hillside. A beautiful break was Port McDermid, lying between two unsympathetic cliffs - a modest little village, very prim and very white in the coppery glow of late evening.
As we slipped between the Virgin Islands, a great pink moon flashed soft radiance on the calm water, and smiled at her own reflection. For a time, she followed us, just beyond the stern of the farthest swerving canoe. But after a bit, she sailed ahead and led our small flotilla, by throwing great splashes of silver in our path.
We disembarked just above Virgin Falls, as darkness engulfed the forest. Through a woodsy trail we felt our way, drawn by the rush and thunder of swift-flowing waters; and presently our little colony of tents gleamed amid the star-dust of a flawless night.
The voice of the Chief Guide summoned us to the water's edge. Noisily we trooped to a pine-crested rock, and silently we stood there, staring in awed fascination at the unearthly beauty that lay before us.
Virgin Falls in the moonlight! No words can picture the scene.
In a great ebony surge, shot with cold, white streaks, the river rushed to the twenty-foot drop where it fell with a terrible volume and silvery foam. A mass of spray like millions of dancing moonstones leaped upwards to capture more light; while below, the rapids churned and roared, tearing, it seemed, without direction or objective over and around the glistening rocks.
Silent, we stood, watching, and quietly we slipped into our blankets, rather excited by the crash and tumbling waters that drowned the music of the stars.
TO BE CONTINUED
NIPIGON RIVER BUNGALOW CAMP c 1924
NIPIGON - THE SEA WITHOUT A SHORE
By Madge Macbeth circa 1924
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
part one:
NIPIGON! It is difficult to find the inevitable adjective that will conjure up the enchantment of that remote region and give to the prospective traveller even a filmy idea of the delight that may be his.
If he is a fisherman, he knows something of the country, by reputation anyway, for Nipigon is almost synonymous with "big trout," the size and sportiness of the red-speckled species having earned for it the respect of anglers the world over, and to say that one has fished the Nipigon waters covers just about all there is to be said.
The sporting opportunities of the Nipigon have been brought well within the grasp of vacationers, by the establishment of a Bungalow Camp on the southern shore of Lake Helen. The Canadian Pacific also erected a station especially for the convenience of its guests who have no need to disembark in Nipigon Village, about two miles distant from the Bungalows. A motor service operates over the few hundred yards between Camp and the new depot.
Nipigon is easily accessible to any point on the continent. It lies on the main line of the Canadian Pacific transcontinental service, nearly a thousand miles west of Montreal and seven hundred and forty-three miles northwest of Toronto, Port Arthur is only sixty-fives miles distant , while Winnipeg is about a days journey. (2013 update - no passenger rail service on this Nipigon mainline anymore - VIA takes the passengers on the northern route north of Lake Nipigon.)
The Bungalow Camp, like those operated at French River and Kenora, provides urban conveniences plus the freedom and informality o the wilds.
A cluster of charming one - and two-room rustic bungalows surrounds a central or Community building, which contains the offices, dining and recreation hall. A spacious, screened verandah surrounds three sides of this Club House, wooing the gay breezes that a cavernous stone fireplace, within, succeeds in discouraging. This fireplace, by the way, is especially interesting by reason of the fact that the stone with which it is built contains great pieces of native amethyst. There is an amethyst "mine" quite near the Camp, where the visitor can secure any number of beautiful souvenirs.
Each cabin is a self contained rustic palace, with hardwood floors, chintz decorations, electric light, running water and comfortable beds. It also boasts of a clothes closet and is effectively screened. As the season advances and the soothing zephyrs of summer are absorbed in the chill rush of the north wind, stoves are added to the furnishing, and no greater cosiness can be found than in one's cabin with a brisk fire crackling and a pot of coffee breathing its fragrance through the room.
In justice to the prospective guest, however, it should be said right here that Nipigon Camp is no place for persons whose wish is to reduce. In atmosphere that fairly pricks the appetite, and with a cuisine that is beyond criticism, especially in the matter of fresh fish - well, the pounds do accumulate, despite energetic bathing in the sparkling waters of the lake, and other forms of vigorous exercise. There is an excellent beach at Nipigon sloping by easy gradations fifty yards or more to the end of a fine dock where more adventurous swimmers can enjoy the thrill of a diving board.
Dancing, of course, is one of the most popular pastimes, and frequently a good orchestra supplements the Camp piano and victrola.
However, the majority of guests do not go to Nipigon to dance, enjoyable as they may find this form of entertainment. They go to fish - to try to break the world record made in 1915, when a speckled trout weighing fourteen and one-half pounds was taken from its waters. Although failure has so far crowned their efforts, they are by no means dissatisfied, for five-pounders are common, and lake trout, pike and pickerel will reward the determined angler.
HISTORY AND INDI-ANA
If history wearies you, be good enough to turn the page. Upon the past is the present builded, and in the Nipigon country one finds a firmer footing on the foundation than upon its more modern superstructure.
True, Nipigon has acquired telegraph, telephone and railways; over it drift echoes of vast operations at Jackfish and Lake Superior; the electric plant at Hydro commands millions of gallons of its water which are transmuted into light, and flung out to cities miles away. But Nipigon does not feel like telephones and telegraphs, railways and steamboats and electric light. It feels like soft voices speaking in strange tongues, like pictures painted on rock or tree, like canoes guided by a strong brown hand, and torches cut from some resinous sapling. And passing but a few miles up the river, that is just about what one will find.
Authorities tell us that Nipigon was known to white people as early as 1612. De la Verendrye was one of the first famous explorers in the district. Brule, whose discoveries deserve more credit than is generally accorded them, certainly must have penetrated this region, and it is more than probable that Long made trips into the Nipigon, for he spent twenty years among the Indians, becoming not only a woodsman, and a fur-trader, but virtually on the savages themselves. He adopted their dress and customs, even to scalping his prisoners. He was admitted into the Chippewa (or Ojibway) nation as one of the most famous Chiefs of the day, and to attain such honour, he was obliged to undergo a very painful initiation. An account of the ceremony makes extremely interesting reading.
The vast territory north of Lake Superior, and fringing the shores of the Nipigon River to the lake of the same name, is one of the sections that has resisted civilization and the invasion of the white man. it is scantily settled, and at that, by the picturesque Ojibways who have occupied that territory since time immemorial.
They are a forest people, and although one of the largest tribes north of Mexico, strong in numbers and occupying extensive lands, they have never been prominent in history. The reason for this is that the Ojibways were always remote from the scene of warfare, particularly during the period of the Colonial struggles. According to tradition, they are part of an Algonquin body that separated into divisions when it reached Mackinaw in the westward movement.
Ojibway is a combination of ojib, to pucker, and ub-way, to roast, the significance being the manner in which this tribe pleated or puckered the lower part of their moccasins on to the piece that forms the top. In Long's account of them, he says they term themselves N'unawesik, meaning Natural Language, and implying that they speak the original tongue, while other tribes have an acquired one.
Referring to the "original tongue", Carver observes that it is easy to pronounce and more copious than any other Indian language. At the same time , it is not encumbered with any unnecessary tones or accents; neither are there any words that are superfluous. Being a stranger to ceremony or compliment, the Ojibways have no need for an infinity of words wherewith to embellish their intercourse.
In the matter of compliment, I am in perfect accord with Carver's observation. I found the guides a most disconcertingly frank people. One day, in a effort to familiarize myself with a few of the commoner terms, such as the numerals, the names of bird and beast and tree, I enquired of Chief Guide Nicholas John what the Indians called women.
"Queer," he answered, promptly, and with utter seriousness.
The hopeful member of the party suggested that he must have given me an Ojibway word that sounded like the uncomplimentary on above. I should like to believe it , but...
A two hour trip from Nipigon Camp will give the visitor a splendid view of the historic Picture Rocks on Lake Superior. This painting executed in colours that are foreign to any natural deposit in the vicinity, of a durability unknown to modern pigment and on rocks that hang, sheer, from immense heights to the water's edge, has always been a mystery to white people. But the Indians explain it with confidence. A Manitou, they say, placed his message there - a Manitou who had no need for colouring matter. He merely laid his finger upon the rock and his words became visible that all might read them, and for all time.
Nipigon added an interesting page to its history when the Prince of Wales visited the district and spent ten days fishing the sparkling waters of the river. Our party followed the route he had taken, and engaged the services of the same cook, as well as two or three of the same guides. They spoke of him in terms of affectionate respect, and were unanimous in according him the title of Ho-go-mar, or Big Chief.
TO BE CONTINUED
By Madge Macbeth circa 1924
Nipigon Historical Museum Archives
part one:
NIPIGON! It is difficult to find the inevitable adjective that will conjure up the enchantment of that remote region and give to the prospective traveller even a filmy idea of the delight that may be his.
If he is a fisherman, he knows something of the country, by reputation anyway, for Nipigon is almost synonymous with "big trout," the size and sportiness of the red-speckled species having earned for it the respect of anglers the world over, and to say that one has fished the Nipigon waters covers just about all there is to be said.
The sporting opportunities of the Nipigon have been brought well within the grasp of vacationers, by the establishment of a Bungalow Camp on the southern shore of Lake Helen. The Canadian Pacific also erected a station especially for the convenience of its guests who have no need to disembark in Nipigon Village, about two miles distant from the Bungalows. A motor service operates over the few hundred yards between Camp and the new depot.
Nipigon is easily accessible to any point on the continent. It lies on the main line of the Canadian Pacific transcontinental service, nearly a thousand miles west of Montreal and seven hundred and forty-three miles northwest of Toronto, Port Arthur is only sixty-fives miles distant , while Winnipeg is about a days journey. (2013 update - no passenger rail service on this Nipigon mainline anymore - VIA takes the passengers on the northern route north of Lake Nipigon.)
The Bungalow Camp, like those operated at French River and Kenora, provides urban conveniences plus the freedom and informality o the wilds.
A cluster of charming one - and two-room rustic bungalows surrounds a central or Community building, which contains the offices, dining and recreation hall. A spacious, screened verandah surrounds three sides of this Club House, wooing the gay breezes that a cavernous stone fireplace, within, succeeds in discouraging. This fireplace, by the way, is especially interesting by reason of the fact that the stone with which it is built contains great pieces of native amethyst. There is an amethyst "mine" quite near the Camp, where the visitor can secure any number of beautiful souvenirs.
Each cabin is a self contained rustic palace, with hardwood floors, chintz decorations, electric light, running water and comfortable beds. It also boasts of a clothes closet and is effectively screened. As the season advances and the soothing zephyrs of summer are absorbed in the chill rush of the north wind, stoves are added to the furnishing, and no greater cosiness can be found than in one's cabin with a brisk fire crackling and a pot of coffee breathing its fragrance through the room.
In justice to the prospective guest, however, it should be said right here that Nipigon Camp is no place for persons whose wish is to reduce. In atmosphere that fairly pricks the appetite, and with a cuisine that is beyond criticism, especially in the matter of fresh fish - well, the pounds do accumulate, despite energetic bathing in the sparkling waters of the lake, and other forms of vigorous exercise. There is an excellent beach at Nipigon sloping by easy gradations fifty yards or more to the end of a fine dock where more adventurous swimmers can enjoy the thrill of a diving board.
Dancing, of course, is one of the most popular pastimes, and frequently a good orchestra supplements the Camp piano and victrola.
However, the majority of guests do not go to Nipigon to dance, enjoyable as they may find this form of entertainment. They go to fish - to try to break the world record made in 1915, when a speckled trout weighing fourteen and one-half pounds was taken from its waters. Although failure has so far crowned their efforts, they are by no means dissatisfied, for five-pounders are common, and lake trout, pike and pickerel will reward the determined angler.
HISTORY AND INDI-ANA
If history wearies you, be good enough to turn the page. Upon the past is the present builded, and in the Nipigon country one finds a firmer footing on the foundation than upon its more modern superstructure.
True, Nipigon has acquired telegraph, telephone and railways; over it drift echoes of vast operations at Jackfish and Lake Superior; the electric plant at Hydro commands millions of gallons of its water which are transmuted into light, and flung out to cities miles away. But Nipigon does not feel like telephones and telegraphs, railways and steamboats and electric light. It feels like soft voices speaking in strange tongues, like pictures painted on rock or tree, like canoes guided by a strong brown hand, and torches cut from some resinous sapling. And passing but a few miles up the river, that is just about what one will find.
Authorities tell us that Nipigon was known to white people as early as 1612. De la Verendrye was one of the first famous explorers in the district. Brule, whose discoveries deserve more credit than is generally accorded them, certainly must have penetrated this region, and it is more than probable that Long made trips into the Nipigon, for he spent twenty years among the Indians, becoming not only a woodsman, and a fur-trader, but virtually on the savages themselves. He adopted their dress and customs, even to scalping his prisoners. He was admitted into the Chippewa (or Ojibway) nation as one of the most famous Chiefs of the day, and to attain such honour, he was obliged to undergo a very painful initiation. An account of the ceremony makes extremely interesting reading.
The vast territory north of Lake Superior, and fringing the shores of the Nipigon River to the lake of the same name, is one of the sections that has resisted civilization and the invasion of the white man. it is scantily settled, and at that, by the picturesque Ojibways who have occupied that territory since time immemorial.
They are a forest people, and although one of the largest tribes north of Mexico, strong in numbers and occupying extensive lands, they have never been prominent in history. The reason for this is that the Ojibways were always remote from the scene of warfare, particularly during the period of the Colonial struggles. According to tradition, they are part of an Algonquin body that separated into divisions when it reached Mackinaw in the westward movement.
Ojibway is a combination of ojib, to pucker, and ub-way, to roast, the significance being the manner in which this tribe pleated or puckered the lower part of their moccasins on to the piece that forms the top. In Long's account of them, he says they term themselves N'unawesik, meaning Natural Language, and implying that they speak the original tongue, while other tribes have an acquired one.
Referring to the "original tongue", Carver observes that it is easy to pronounce and more copious than any other Indian language. At the same time , it is not encumbered with any unnecessary tones or accents; neither are there any words that are superfluous. Being a stranger to ceremony or compliment, the Ojibways have no need for an infinity of words wherewith to embellish their intercourse.
In the matter of compliment, I am in perfect accord with Carver's observation. I found the guides a most disconcertingly frank people. One day, in a effort to familiarize myself with a few of the commoner terms, such as the numerals, the names of bird and beast and tree, I enquired of Chief Guide Nicholas John what the Indians called women.
"Queer," he answered, promptly, and with utter seriousness.
The hopeful member of the party suggested that he must have given me an Ojibway word that sounded like the uncomplimentary on above. I should like to believe it , but...
A two hour trip from Nipigon Camp will give the visitor a splendid view of the historic Picture Rocks on Lake Superior. This painting executed in colours that are foreign to any natural deposit in the vicinity, of a durability unknown to modern pigment and on rocks that hang, sheer, from immense heights to the water's edge, has always been a mystery to white people. But the Indians explain it with confidence. A Manitou, they say, placed his message there - a Manitou who had no need for colouring matter. He merely laid his finger upon the rock and his words became visible that all might read them, and for all time.
Nipigon added an interesting page to its history when the Prince of Wales visited the district and spent ten days fishing the sparkling waters of the river. Our party followed the route he had taken, and engaged the services of the same cook, as well as two or three of the same guides. They spoke of him in terms of affectionate respect, and were unanimous in according him the title of Ho-go-mar, or Big Chief.
TO BE CONTINUED
Saturday, 22 June 2013
19,000 PAGEVIEWS REACHED THE DAY BEFORE SUMMER, JUNE 20, 2013
THANK YOU TO ALL OUR READERS.
LOTS OF MUSEUM ACTIVITY THIS PAST MONTH, GETTING READY FOR THE NEW SUMMER SEASON.
RESEARCH REQUESTS, STUDENT INTERVIEWS, AND REPORTS.
DAN GAPEN IS WORKING ON A NEW BOOK AND HE DROPPED BY THE MUSEUM TO LOOK AT OUR FISHING PHOTOS. Dan's parents owned the Chalet Bungalow Lodge, on Lake Helen/Nipigon River, when he was growing up. Now, as a senior, senior, he has returned for a speaking engagement at the Lodge (June 21, 2013)
Staff training starts on Monday June 24th at the Museum. If the weather is nice I will be taking them on the Historic Walking Tour of significant places in Nipigon's history then we will be back at the Museum for the evening shift 6 to 8 PM. After that from the 25th on it will be open every day from 11 AM till 8PM - seven days a week, July and August.
LOTS OF MUSEUM ACTIVITY THIS PAST MONTH, GETTING READY FOR THE NEW SUMMER SEASON.
RESEARCH REQUESTS, STUDENT INTERVIEWS, AND REPORTS.
DAN GAPEN IS WORKING ON A NEW BOOK AND HE DROPPED BY THE MUSEUM TO LOOK AT OUR FISHING PHOTOS. Dan's parents owned the Chalet Bungalow Lodge, on Lake Helen/Nipigon River, when he was growing up. Now, as a senior, senior, he has returned for a speaking engagement at the Lodge (June 21, 2013)
Staff training starts on Monday June 24th at the Museum. If the weather is nice I will be taking them on the Historic Walking Tour of significant places in Nipigon's history then we will be back at the Museum for the evening shift 6 to 8 PM. After that from the 25th on it will be open every day from 11 AM till 8PM - seven days a week, July and August.
Sunday, 2 June 2013
TRIBUTE TO GEORGE MAREK , written circa 2004
TRIBUTE TO GEORGE MAREK
© by E.J. Lavoie
27 PIKE’S PEAK
Pike’s Peak or Bust! Zebulon Pike espied the Colorado mountain in the year 1806, but he failed to reach its summit. He predicted that no one ever would. In 1820 someone did.
In 1859 rumours created a gold rush, and seekers painted the slogan on their canvas-topped wagons. However, they found no gold.
From this brief review we learn two things about peaks. One, people want to climb them. Two, peaks are not always enriching experiences.
In August 1980 Yours Truly aspired to climb to the continental divide in the Wind River Range of the American Rockies. Sixteen of us hiked up the Sweetwater River in Wyoming, and nineteen of us came back (Well, you have to count the guides at some point). We were mountaineers.
Mountaineers! That has a ring to it. We used no fancy equipment – no ropes, no pitons, no helicopters. We hiked. We were going to do this thing unaided, stripped of civilized conveniences, save for the guides, the sixty-pound packs, and detailed maps from the U.S. Geological Survey.
The pass in the mountains was Sweetwater Gap. At that point the river did not even qualify as a crick, as they say in them parts. It was more of a croak. The last one. The pass was as level as Peter Mansbridge’s head1, a lofty plain of waist-high shrubs. Then we were following a crick downhill. It was the Middle Fork of the Popo Agie2 River. We had crossed the divide. And lived to tell about it.
And I learned another thing about summits. It can be fun getting there. It can be fun leaving there. But some peaks are just plateaus (Okay, for you bilinguals, plateaux).
This year, after the spring breakup, I climbed the continental divide, the one that runs east and west in the land of Goshen. Three of us hiked there unaided, save for the graded road, the 6-cylinder Ford truck, and detailed maps from the Geological Survey of Canada.
For the last few miles we paddled, assisted by a 15-horse Johnson outboard. The top of the world here is called Summit Lake, a shallow pond with waist-high water plants. I had come to scatter my friend George3.
George loved this place. So I dumped him there. The wind caught some of the dust; the water, the rest. The water leaves Summit at one end by a crick, some of which eventually trickles into the Atlantic. And the water leaves Summit at the other end by a stream, some of which trickles into the Arctic Ocean. So, you see, Summit Lake is a peak. George has crossed the divide. Both ways. And he’s still traveling. I just know he’s having fun.
By my calculations, some of George has already reached the Kapikotongwa4 River to the north and Ombabika5 Bay to the south. Some might be wintering in a wild rice bed, some lodging in a beaver house, and some powdering a peak in Colorado, carried there by the muddy feet of wild geese.
Now, as for the wind-borne motes of George . . . they could be on the other side of the world by now. They could be fertilizing Alice Springs in the Australian outback. George and I are both having an enriching experience.
I looked up Pike’s Peak today, on the Internet. It seems it is still a lot of fun to get there. There is a paved road to the top of the mountain, and 265,000 people drive up every year. This does not take into account the ones who walk up, bike up, or ride the cog railway (Don’t ask). Few ever stay long. Nor did Katharine Lee Bates, who, inspired by the magnificent view, hurried back down to compose the nation’s unofficial anthem, America the Beautiful.
Zebulon might have been wrong, but he would have been proud.
* * * * * * * *
Peaks can be fun, whether getting there or leaving there,
but no one lingers there – not even as dust.
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