TREATY DAY WITH OJIBWAYS 1911

 

Paying Canada’s Rent

By James Henry Pedley

The Globe  Toronto    March 9, 1912  page 2

You have heard of Canada’s duty to herself – and of Canada’s duty to the Empire.

You have gloated over her natural resources, you have debated hotly the question of reciprocity and its probable bearing upon the future welfare of the country.

But was it ever brought home to you, prosperous Canadian, that this Canada of yours is not yours after all;  that it is a leasehold property, leased by the many from the few, and that you pay every year a portion of the rent?

We are but tenants in the land which we so proudly call our own.  Not so many miles to the Northward,  living a simple life in tents and lowly shacks, dwell our landlords.  They are not harsh and overbearing, those owners of our soil;  nay, rather are they humble and submissive in spirit, thankfully accepting from their tenants a paltry handful of crumbs, let fall from the heaped-up table of the land’s fruitage, the fullness of which they were incapable of reaping for themselves.

Among the Cabinet Ministers of the Dominion of Canada is numbered the Minister of the Interior.  From his office at Ottawa he directs those administrative departments which come under his control.  The Department of Indian Affairs is one of these.  It is presided over by a Deputy Minister and carries on its work through the medium of Indian agents distributed throughout Canada, and one of the most important duties of each agent consists in “paying off” the Indians in his district, according to the treaties made at different times in the past between the redmen and the whites.

Not all the Indians in Canada receive “treaty- money” – some tribes, perhaps more sagacious than the others (  although this is open to question ), demanded citizenship and voting rights in return for the sacrifice of their ancestral haunts;  but in the majority of cases the forefathers of the present day Indians gave way before the onward march of a force which they were powerless to withstand and sank their national freedom on a state of dependency.  Exempt from all public burdens, such as taxation, they have given up their individuality and have become mere wards of the Canadian people, virtually supported out of the State Treasury.

In many ways the lot of the Indians is by no means a hard one.  In addition to the four dollars “treaty money” due annually to every member of every band ( I refer now especially to those bands included in the provisions of the James Bay  Treaty ), of whatever age or sex, each Indian receives an elementary education at an Indian school, is supplied with ordinary medicines free of charge, and is given opportunity of consulting a skilled white doctor at least once a year.  He has a reserve to dwell upon in the summer and a hunting ground set apart for his use in winter, and if furs are scarcer now than in the old days they bring a better price, so that the dark-skinned hunter has lost nothing by reason of the changed conditions.  More, he is allowed to shoot almost any animal or bird for food at any time of the year, and should he, despite these privileges, become destitute, it is his right to demand aid from the Government. The prosperity of the individual seems assured, but for the race there is only one outlook, and that is – death.

Under the present system ambition is killed and self-respect is lost, so that the name “Indian,” once calculated to ispire awe or fear, with also a touch of admiration, now incites only feelings of pity or, as often, contempt in the breast of the whiteman who has succeeded him.

“Lo, the poor Indian,” wrote the poet – it was well written.

At Flying Post, a station of the Hudson’s Bay Company, fifty miles north of Biscotasing, on the Canadian Pacific Railway, resides a band of Ojibway Indians, about one hundred and thirty in all. At Fort Metagami, fifty miles to the southeast, there is another band, and every summer Mr. H. A. West, the Indian agent in that district, who lives in Chapleau, draws a thousand dollars from the bank there and makes the trip by canoe to Flying Post and Fort Metagami, paying Canada’s rent in bright new one- dollar bills. With him are a doctor, a clerk, an Interpreter and a cook, as well as four Indians to do the heavy work.  On the fifth or sixth day out the party draws nigh the first post to be visited.

On the last portage a spruce pole is cut, which is set up in the bow of one of the canoes, and to this improvised flagstaff is fastened a weather-beaten Union Jack, a symbol of British might and good-will.  We are approaching a community far off from human intercourse, a place where our visit is a thing long looked forward to and long remembered, so that it behooves us to make some show of ceremony. Our guns ready loaded, we are prepared to make a triumphal entry.  The “flagship” bearing the precious pay-valise, takes a slight lead;  and with long shoulder strokes we drive the two canoes around the last bend and into full view of the post – a cluster of log buildings, flanked by the tents and bark wigwams of the Indians, and far back on the hill a little church.  The wooden buildings in the foreground are the property of the Hudson’s Bay Company, and in a moment, in answer to our first rifle-shot, the Canadian Ensign, its lower corner embellished with the Company’s device, is run up on the flagstaff.  Simultaneously the report of a shotgun reaches our ears, followed by another and another, until it seems as if every gun in camp is pouring forth his quota of noise to swell the tumult.  A moment’s lull to permit the reloading, and now is heard the baying of hounds mingled with the shrill barking of mongrel curs.  The shore is alive with these animals each striving to be the loudest to raise the note of welcome ( or is it the opposite?); wherefore Fred, our French-Canadian cook, is moved to murmur in his quaint near-English, “Ho, de dogs he make saluting too, him,” Again and again as we draw near, and the sound of firing rolls over the water, and our rifle makes answer. And the higher ground is dotted with expectant figures long before we reach the landing.  This is the big event of the year for the dwellers at this post, and our welcome by the portly Hudson’s Bay Factor is both hearty and sincere.  Five minutes later finds us the centre of a dark-skinned group shaking hands promiscuously, and answering the guttural “ B’ jou’s” of the men and women of the band.  All familiarities over, we take ourselves off to our projected campground to superintend the preparation of a camp.

To be continued.

This is  a long article, quite detailed and using “non-politically correct language” of the year 1911.

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DESTINATION NIPIGON

I  wrote this a couple years ago using Buzz Lein's timelines of Nipigon's evolution.  Like every other town trying to find a "hook" to bring tourists in, Nipigon goes through periodic "group thinks".

 

DESTINATION NIPIGON

 

The piling, Nipigon River.

NIPIGON.

THAT ALL ENCOMPASSING WORD.

It is the name of Legend.

Famed the world over…

For its BEAUTY, its WILDNESS, Its FISH.

For its POETRY…that sings to us of NIPIGON, of the SILENCE and the SOLITUDE, and the POWER.

 

Those who came here claimed their memories for eternity when they returned to “The WORLD” beyond our shores.

They came.

They saw.

They were conquered by the grandeur of  our NIPIGON.

Our RIVER.

Our LAKE.

 

Be proud of your NIPIGON that you have today.

Be aware of what you have that others don’t.

 

Why not be “NIPIGON”?

Be the place people want to come to , AGAIN.

The RIVER still runs. Tamed by 3 DAMs plus the OGOKI and possibly the Little Jackfish in the future.

DAMs are powerful attractants.

We have 3 on the NIPIGON – Each unique in its setting.

There be those who rail against the loss of the wild rapids and falls and the over-flooding of the Lakes of the NIPIGON. I was one myself when I read E.E.Millard’s Days on the Nepigon of 1917.

The Nipigon Historical Museum has a copy of that. (It is also in the public domain and reprinted on the internet.)

But, our loss has been mitigated – it is preserved in memoirs, journals and photos of the early visitors to NIPIGON. The Nipigon Historical Museum has some of these.

To some it was a journey of a lifetime – others returned year after year.

There was even a saying in the  ‘60’s “If you drink the water of NIPIGON 3 times you’ll never leave.”

I drank first in 1965.

I drank a second time in 1966.

I drank a third time in 1968.

Hello, I am still here in 2013.

The FORESTS still grow – but our Nipigon Mills are no more.

Only photos and memories.

The Nipigon Historical Museum holds many of these.

A lone piling off the site of the Little Mill – artefact of the River Drives of the NIPIGON – never to come this way again.

 Only photos, artefacts and memories.

The Nipigon Historical Museum holds many of these.

Before the TRAINS people came by canoe or boat – steamers or Paddle-Wheel or sail .

After 50 years of being the only way to roll the TRAINS had to share travellers with THE ROAD.  The one ROAD crossing the Nipigon River.

The one road that we still have – now the ONLY way to get to NIPIGON unless by canoe or boat or sail…

But, soon we will have “THE BRIDGE” like no other bridge in Ontario.

The ROCK remains.

Stripped to its bare essentials by the glaciers.

The BEDROCK of the WORLD.

Highway 11 runs beside it.

Highway 17 cuts through it – again, and again and again.

In NIPIGON it is “THE NATURAL EDGE” framing the horizons.

Granite, Marble and Sandstone – and the Red Red Rock.

The Nipigon Historical Museum has some of that.

According to Buzz Lein’s calculations – about 1500 B.C., our view became what you see from McKirdy Avenue.

To drive McKirdy is to drive on the TERMINAL MORAINE.  The oldest glacial beach is just below along the 800 foot contour level.  That’s where the Copper Culture artefacts were unearthed.

The Nipigon Historical Museum has some of those.

Time passed.

The water dropped.

Driving by Cliffside Cemetery and along Front Street puts you on the geological level of the NIPISSING BEACH – dated at 4000 years ago.

The Nipigon Historical Museum is located on that.

Time passed.

The water dropped another hundred feet – or the land rose on the glacial rebound as it is still doing at about 50 cm. per 100 years.

So, the RIVER runs now as it did in 1500 B.C. – except that it is tamed and flooded and diverted – all in the last 100 years.

But, you can still say when you stand on the River shore at the Marina, here also stood La Verendrye.

When you stand on the dock, you see what the H.B.Co. Fur Traders saw – their dock being in that same location only longer, and the Lagoon held the full flow of the NIPIGON RIVER.

43 years ago when Buzz rounded up the movers and the shakers of Nipigon he had visions of a CULTURAL COMPLEX. A Fur Trade Post, a Logging Camp and a Museum and Archives.

That didn’t happen.

But, we did get the Museum and Archives – opening in 1973-  helped by the demise of the river drives and Domtar relocating their Woodlands Office to Red Rock. That old office was sold to the town of Nipigon for $2 with a Covenant  “To be used as a museum.”

The Nipigon Historical Museum Society set up and ran the Nipigon Historical Museum with a membership of 139 to draw on for staffing until we could qualify for summer student grants.

With the help and encouragement of Jack Stokes, our member of Provincial Parliament at the time, and John Carter, Museum Advisor of the Ministry of Culture, and Ollie Sawchuck, Regional Advisor from Thunder Bay,  the Nipigon Historical Museum qualified for Community Museums Operating Grant status which we held until a few years after the fire of 1990.

In 2008 re re-applied and became a “CMOG” Museum again.

In 2011 and 2012 we were required to submit all our policies for evaluation by the Ministry of Culture etc.

As a result we had to up-date every one to reflect how we meet new criteria and laws – by the 30^th of June 2013

We could not just say we are accessible – we had to describe each feature such as – “ The Nipigon Historical Museum’s front entrance off Front Street is an automatic push-button-to-open door, sidewalk level entrance to foyer with interior door also push-button-to-open.”

The Provincial Government has a set of Standards that all CMOG museums must meet. How we do it is reflected in our Policies to address each criteria of that Standard.

THE MISSION STATEMENT

THE STATEMENT OF PURPOSE

EXHIBITION

EDUCATION AND INTERPRETATION

FINANCE

GOVERNANCE

HUMAN RESOURCES

CONSERVATION

COLLECTION ACQUISITION AND MANAGEMENT

RESEARCH

PHYSICAL PLANT

And all must show our ETHICS, Right of PRIVACY and ACCESS.

TECHNOLOGY  is not yet on their list but I have included a POLICY for our own benefit.

The Government wants to know who is responsible for the implementation of these policies and how we evaluate our activities.

Using Guest Register Comments is not considered an evaluation.

That’s a pity.

When , this June,  the Province’s Chief Museum Advisor from Toronto visited the Nipigon Historical Museum, she commented in our Guest Register.

She wrote, “Fantastic!”

Hudson's Bay Company sign

HUDSON’S BAY HAS BEEN HERE SINCE 1792

From: Times Journal May 13, 1948

 

The Hudson’s Bay Company has been in operation in the Nipigon area since the year 1792 when the first post on Lake Nipigon was established at the Northwest corner of the Lake by John McKay.

John McKay was the son of a family which had been serving the Hudson’s Bay Company faithfully for 130 years.  Four years later after the first post was built in 1796, Jacob Gorrigal built another post on the west shore , near a fort occupied by a group of traders from Montreal.  The new post was known as St. Anne’s Lake House.  At the time, Lake Nipigon was known as St. Anne’s Lake.

When the Hudson’s Bay and Northwest Companies joined in 1821 there was only one post in operation on Lake Nipigon, a post of the Northwest Company.  It was known as Fort Duncan Cameron.  The post is said to have been well-favored by the Indians of the area who came there to trade in great numbers.

Where the community of Nipigon now stands at the mouth of the Nipigon River, there stood a post of the Northwest Company which is believed was established about  the year 1785.  This post was later taken over by the Hudson’s Bay Company.

The Post was called Red Rock Post but the name was later changed to Nipigon.  The post was operated as a fur trading station but in 1938 it was transferred to the retail stores division of the company.

The present store (1948) , occupying a prominent position on Front Street, the main business street of Nipigon, is little reminiscent of the old fur trading days.  The Hudson’s Bay Company store supplies modern merchandise in several lines in a handsome modern structure.

Hudson's Bay Company store sign from Nipigon Store.
circa 1938 -1982
Now on the Nipigon Historical Museum wall

Some dates in this article may be approximate.

Making the Birch Bark Lodge

Making the Birch Bark Lodge

Martin Hunter : The Bush Indians of the 1860’s

How They Camped and Apportioned the Work

From the standpoint of the present day, (early 1900’s) , one might suppose that the Indians are much better off now than in former days, but I doubt it.  They have many luxuries, conveniences and superfluities that they had not then, but these are acquired tastes and at the expense of things more useful and lasting.

It was the policy of the Hudson’s Bay Company, before they were forced to do otherwise by the free traders, never to introduce anything new or non-essential to the Indian.  The goods they bartered were of the very best and most durable quality.. They charged for them, it is true, but the Indian had something he could depend on for service and wear.  This fixed policy ran through everything we bartered – guns, blankets, clothes, shawls, netting twine, ammunition, etc. , etc.

In those far back days provisions for the interior trade was unknown, and tea was, in small quantities, imported more as a gratuity than for barter.  Rum had been abolished throughout the country, and the tea was given the Indians in lieu thereof at their periodic trading visits to the posts.

An Indian’s home, the tepee, was made from sheets of the young white birch, sewed together in rolls of from twelve to fifteen feet, each roll tied together with a leather thong and placed, when moving the camp, either on his toboggan or in the canoe in summer.  From six to ten rolls made a very comfortable camp for a small family.

When the site of the new encampment was reached, the woman cleared a circle of brush, rotten wood and stones and broke up the ground with the head of an old axe so as to level it off and make it softer.  Sand and stones were placed in the middle in an oblong shape and slightly higher than the rest of the interior. This was to build their fire upon.

During this labor of the woman the husband cuts ten or fifteen straight poles three or four inches at the butt and tapering up to ten or twelve feet long.  These poles are to form the skeleton of the structure upon which to lay the extended rolls of bark.  If there were grown up children in the family, they drew the poles to the place as the father cut and branched them.

Three of these poles were tied with wattap ( a root) near the small end, or of such a height as the peak of the camp was intended to be.  This triangle being placed over the camp ground with the top just over where the fire would be,  the other poles were then placed all around the circle with their tops resting in the forks of the triangle.  These poles placed about two feet apart made, when finished, a very secure structure.

The poles at the entrance were placed very securely in the ground and about three feet apart at the bottom.

All now being ready to receive the bark, the man and woman unwound each roll very carefully by backing away from each other.  When the roll was clear to its full length, it was placed gently on the framework, beginning at the door space near the ground, tying it securely there and at the other end to the frame pole, and so on till the circumference near the ground had received a tier all around, finishing off at the door again.

Then another row began, giving a lap of three or four inches over the first strip, shingle fashion, to shed rain or melting snow.

The bark rolls being about a yard wide, three tier generally went as high as they wanted it, so as to leave an opening about the collection of pole tops for the smoke to escape from.

Once the bark covering was all in place, a few other poles of heavier weight but shorter length were lodged here and there all the way round against the bark and on top of the inner poles.  This keeps the bark from flapping about in the wind and prevents it cracking by the weather.

For a door an old blanket or dressed deerskin (hair on) is used.  The two upper corners being fixed securely to each side of the door inside, to the lower part near the ground a small cross stick is fixed.  This keeps the blanket extended to its width, and the cross bar, which is slightly longer than the blanket is broad, lodges at each side of the opening, thus preventing the blanket from tumbling inwards.  In passing in and out, one side is lifted up and allowed to fall behind the person.

The camp as a camp is now ready, excepting a liberal supply of cedar or balsam brush.  If an abundance of brush is near at hand, it is sometimes put on a foot thick.  Brushing a camp as it should be done is a great art, and some women are very painstaking about it.

It is a mistaken idea to think the brush is chucked down any way and trampled into shape.  On the contrary, the feathery ends of the branches are all placed one way.  These are taken five or six in a bunch and placed shingle fashion, commencing at the outer part of the camp and working towards the fire all round the circle.  When the whole is finished and properly done, no stalks are visible except those of the last bunches near the fireplace.

The breaking and carrying of the brush to camp is woman’s and children’s work, and while this is going on the man is chopping and carrying the night’s firewood.

The wood is cut in lengths as heavy and long as the man can handle, and while the wife, who by this time has got the camp brushed, is cooking the supper over a small fire, the husband is cutting his long wood into short lengths and plitting it at the camp door.  Thus all work goes on together and the result is ease.

Apart from rendering assistance this first night of a new encampment, the woman ever afterwards as long as they remain on that spot has to chop and carry the next night’s wood while her lord and master is away on the trap line or hunting game.

A night spent in a new camp; a bright, cheerful fire, the smell of the new brush, roasting game exuding its fragrance, and on lolling back smoking the after supper pipe, is one of the charming and satisfying conditions of the bush.

"Shoo-fly" VS "the Iditarod"

In previous Post "Shoo-fly" and its three team-mates made the fifty-five mile crossing of Lake Nipigon in a winter gale, in the time of ten hours.

 

A few days ago, Dallas Seavey, the 2016 Iditarod winner of March 14th, 2016, crossed from White Mountain to Safety (Alaska), a distance of fifty-five miles, with seven dogs, in a time of 5 hours and 48 minutes. Those dogs had already travelled the better part of 900 miles before doing this.

 

 

The Sagacity of "Shoo-fly"

THE SAGACITY OF  “SHOO-FLY”

By Martin Hunter

In the winter of 1876-77 I was out with a party of Hudson’s Bay men, watching an opposition party that had venturesomely penetrated our country in quest of furs.

I had followed them up in the fall by canoes and after the lakes and rivers froze we continued on foot, with dogs to haul our supplies.

We overtook the people we were in search of exactly on top of the land between Hudson’s Bay and the shores of Lake Superior.  They had, long before our arrival, erected their shanty and log storehouse, and our orders were to pitch alongside of where we found them, it was up to us to fell trees and build our own shelter.

It is rather a disheartening task to tackle in December, when the glass seldom rises above zero, to clear away the snow from the frozen ground and start to build one’s habitation.  But we were all young, strong, and in perfect health, and the world ahead of us had no terrors. We looked on it as a matter of course and went at it with a will.

Our first important work was to get the trees felled and the logs drawn to place while we had the use of the dog teams.  Dog food was a serious item and the sooner I could send most of them back to our nearest post the better.  In fact, I was merely following orders, which said: “ As soon as you can, after you catch up with these people and get your log hauling done, send all the dogs but one team back.”

This I carried out, sending two men with three teams to Nipigon House and keeping four men and one team with me.

Our opponents had made such a substantial camp that it told us plainly they intended remaining there till the opening of navigation. We, therefore, made ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would allow.

A man in the bush without an axe is useless and can oly stand around, but the five of us had axes and each one knew how to make use of it. The log walls of our shanty and storehouse went up by the run.  The roof and chinking the open space did not take long.

Of course, we had no stove, not even a tin one. The only thing to do was make a stove and clay chimney.  This took us considerable time, as everything had to be melted with hot water and the clay and long grass for torch making was only to be had at considerable distance from the shack site.

However, perseverance, with a strong pull and a pull together, does wonders, and we were each of us interested to have the work completed with the utmost dispatch. The 20^th of December saw us housed and all in order, with two days firewood at the door.

 “Now, boys,” I said, “we will take a much required rest.”

Since leaving Nipigon House a hundred and twenty miles south, we had been strenuously on the jump, walking, sleeping and working in the bitter cold with never a let up.  Now I was allowing them and myself forty-eight hours of solid rest and inaction. The delight of that respite, which ended all too soon, for our imported provisions alone would not support us, our dependence, in great measure, must be what the country would produce.

We brought with us guns, ammunition, snaring twine and fish nets, - these we must use, and with effect, to economise our flour and pork.

As all my men were real bushmen, I could vary their line of activity. One was sent off to set nets under the ice, a second to set rabbit snares, another to hunt game, partridge, deer, or whatever eatable and shootable crossed their path, while the fourth man cut and hauled firewood and did the cooking.

I kept changing about from week to week, thus their duties never became monotonous ; in fact, it developed a kind of rivalry between them. Should the rabbit man be unlucky and fail to bring in a goodly number, the man getting that job next week would kink his leg muscles trying to surpass his predecessor.

Thus the days and weeks went by.  As far as watching the opposition was concerned, our duties were nil, for there was no likelihood or probability of them running outlying Indian camps until the days became longer and milder with the approach of Spring.

About the 10^th of February,  hunger for news of the world and private letters commenced to draw at my heart strings. I had left the last post office on the Frontier in September, and since then had had no tidings of any kind. To send out and get letters would be good, but no matter what letters I got I could not answer them. No, the better way was to go out myself to the first post-office, get my mail and answer it there on the spot.

Decide first, Act afterward.  This was my motto.  Our team of four dogs had had pretty easy times, merely to draw our firewood down from the mountain to the door.  They had not been highly fed, but then, it takes very little to keep a dog about the door, with little exercise;  our dogs, therefore, were in good condition.

That evening, after the fire, I unfolded my plans to my young assistant, or second in command.

He said, “Why, certainly;  go by all means, Mr. Hunter.  I can manage here all right with two men. Take Stephen and the dogs and get away before we have another snow storm.”

That fixed it.  The next day we started in the afternoon.  I made this late departure on purpose, not to surprise the dogs too much at the offset.

We made about twenty miles and camped for the night.

From our shanty to the outlet of the Norwest River at Nipigon Lake, the distance is about ninety miles. The going was pretty deep all the way down, as the lakes are small and the rivers narrow.  However, we reached the lake at four o’clock the third afternoon.

There we dried our snowshoes, scraped the toboggan and made all preparations for a night crossing to Nipigon House, right straight across that big inland sea, fifty-five miles from shore to shore is a pretty serious proposition.

Even if one leaves the shore in a calm and apparently settled weather, yet things may alter very much before one reaches the further shore.  Such a sudden change befell us that night, and were it not for the sagacity of our leading dog, in all probability we would have perished out on that terrible expanse of ice.

Everything being ready at eight o’clock, we pointed out from our camp fire, which was amongst the rocks on the beach.  We took on board the sled split-up kindling and birch bark enough to boil our tea-kettle about midnight. The dogs had had four hour’s rest and were in good condition and spirits.

Our fire showed bright astern for half an hour, shortly after that it either went out or the land fall prevented us seeing it any longer.

The surface of the ice was in the best of condition and our dogs making good time.   There was hardly a breath of air when we started; by the time I am writing about  a slight breeze began to play on my cheek. Ah, what was that? A flake of snow? Yes; only too true, and then another and more in quick succession.

I turned my head and consulted Stephen, who stood on the tail end of the komitic.

“Will we turn back, or continue on?  Now is the time to return to the shore if we are going to have a storm,” I exclaimed.

Being young, he was optimistic, and did not relish the idea of retracing our steps.

“Oh, no,” he said: “the dogs are good and Shoo-fly (our leading dog) can find the way.”

I could say no more.  He was the driver and guide and ought to know what was possible to perform.

By that time the wind was steadily increasing, and with it the dry, salty snow – snow that flayed the face when we looked to windward.  Every now and then I heard Stephen calling an encouraging word to the leader, but never, after we had pointed him straight when we left the shore, did he attempt any direction of course.  Everything was entrusted to the dog’s instinct and sagacity to carry us through.

The storm became so great that even the dog nearest the sleigh was not discernable, and yet that noble leader kept right at his work, forging into the face of the blinding gale.

On that level, storm swept expanse, there was no stopping; it was push on or perish.  All at once we appeared to run into a calm and then the dogs stopped.

Stephen ran forward to ascertain the cause. He came back and said we were at the lea of an ice ridge, and now was our time to have our midnight lunch.

Nipigon is noted for its ice upheavals.  We were at the back of one and in shelter while we remained there.

I chopped up the ice to form water in our kettle, while Stephen started the fire.  The blaze revealed the poor dogs encrusted with snow, and now they had come to a standstill, they were each busy clearing themselves of ice.

While the flare lasted, Stephen examined the ridge to find a crossing. Very little time was wasted eating our snack, and dogs and men clambered over the shoved up ice barrier and once more we were away.

It seemed cruel not to feed the dogs, but Stephen said it would make them useless for further service did we do so.  Dogs in the North are only fed once in twenty-four hours. Ours had been fed on the beach as soon as we camped and now they would only eat when we reached our destination.

Neither of us carried a compass and our pulling through successfully depended on the leading dog.  Stephen said it was all right and nothing remained for me to do but accept his word, and on and on we continued, mile after mile.

Ensconced in my warm blanket and laced up to the chin in the komitic, I must have dosed, or even slept. Stephen shook me by the head and enquired the time. Unlacing a part of the top, I managed to light under cover and found it was four o’clock.

My guide ventured the opinion that we could not be much more than eight or ten miles from shore, and in an hour or an hour and a quarter we ought to smell it if not yet daylight.  He surmised the distance by the rate we had been travelling -  a sort of bushman’s “dead reckoning.”

Day broke and revealed the fort right ahead of us, not a mile off.  The storm was at its last blow and we arrived under a clear sky.

What bedlam!  Our dogs began to bark when they saw the buildings, to be answered by all the dogs within the stockade.  As we struck the shore the gates were swung open and there stood Henri, Count de la Ronde, to welcome us.

I looked at my watch; it was six o’clock.  Fifty-five miles in ten hours.  We must have come as straight as a string.  I flopped on the snow and took that “Shoo-fly” in my arms.