Six hundred feet high doesn’t mean that you get there by walking six hundred feet. It must have been two miles back to the little trapper’s cabin at the end of the skid-road. The road slanted at quite an incline, and every muscle screamed with the punishment before we got there. We had to stop to get our breath every hundred feet or so—all except John and Peter who ran around in circles. At the cabin we dropped exhausted...then drank and bathed our faces in the ice-cold stream.
The skid-road ends there, and we had to follow a trapline marked by axe-blazes on the trees. The traplines are only used when the snow is on the ground, so there is no path to follow—just the blazed or white scars on the trees. We rested often, as the going was really hard—soft earth, moss and rolling stones. We had to walk sideways to get any kind of foothold. Then we came to the cliff. The boys thought it was the end of everything. But the blazes led off to the right, to the bottom of a chimney with small junipers for hand-holds. John went up directly in front of me. If he were going to slip, I would rather be at the beginning of it, before he gathered momentum. It had its disadvantages though; for he filled me up with earth and stones which trickled down inside my shirt and out my shorts.
At last—on the edge of a flat near the end of the tree-line—we reached the huckleberry bushes. Wonderful bushes! Waist high and loaded with berries twice the size of blackcurrants. Growing where they did, in the sun with the cliffs behind to hold the heat, and all the streams to water them—they are sweet and juicy. In no time we had our pails full—you just milked them off the bushes. And then we just sat and ate and ate and ate—and our tongues got bluer and bluer.
It was Peter who started sniffing, swinging his head in a semi-circle to pick up the direction....”I smell foxes—no, I mean bears,” he said. I had smelt them some time ago—bears like huckleberries too. But I hadn’t climbed four thousand feet to be frightened by a bear. Also, I was getting tired of Maeterlinck conjuring up bears in our life. By now, everybody was sniffing.
“Bang your lids against your tins,” I suggested. “That will frighten them away.”
So we all banged and banged. Then, as our tins and ourselves were full, I eased everybody on down the trail—just in case. As was perfectly natural, everybody had dreamt of bears the night before. Well—Maeterlinck may have some kind of a plausible Time theory, but the children are not sure how he manages about the bears. If they are going to climb onto both ends of the Curve it will be a little too much.
Going down a mountain is easier on the wind, but much harder on the legs. The back muscles of your calves, which get stretched going up, seem to tie themselves in knots going down—trying to take up the slack.
We tried to sneak past the cabin to our dinghy at the float, but the Man from California was lying down there in the sun.
“Where have you been all day?” he asked. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“We smelt bears,” offered John. “And we banged our tins at them, and they were all as afraid as anything.”
The man groaned...his paradise spoiled, I suppose. But what about ours? I hastily showed him the huckleberries and asked him to come over and eat huckleberry pie with us on Trapper’s Rock—two hours after the sun went over the top.
Then we rowed home and fell into the sea to soak our aches and pains and mud away—around the rock, out of sight. We couldn’t wear our bathing suits, for now our only clothes were dirty again, and we had to keep our bathing-suits for supper.
We made a big fire on top of the rock to sit by; and cooked our supper on the little campfire in the prehistoric cave. A big corned-beef hash with tomatoes and onions—our biggest pot full of huckleberry dumplings—and coffee. I had warned the children not to mention bears again, so beyond a few groans when he heard where we had got the berries, we had a pleasant evening.
Clothes had to be washed again—the mountain climb had certainly ravaged them. So we spent the morning away up the landslide while our clothes dried. The man had paddled off in his canoe early, to get mail and provisions that some boat was to leave for him at Casper’s—so we had the inlet to ourselves.
I had snubbed everybody at breakfast-time who tried to report a bear-dream—and felt that I had things back on a sane basis again. I had dreamt of climbing all night—my legs were probably aching. It wouldn’t do for me to write mine down when I had been snubbing the children for even talking about theirs. By breakfast-time the only thing I could remember about it at all—was hanging on to a bush for dear life, while something—water I think—flowed or slid past....It had been terrifying, I know.
Later in the day we climbed up beside the falls. The stream above was very turbulent—you would certainly be battered to death on the big boulders if you fell in. And if you escaped that, there were the falls below to finish you off. Quite a long way farther back there was a large tree across the stream which made a bridge to the other side. We crawled across on our hands and knees—no fooling allowed. I brought up the rear, holding John’s belt in my teeth....The others were across and had gone on ahead before John and I got safely over....I swear that either the tree or the shore shook with the force of that raging water.
The others were out of sight and I called to them to wait. When we caught up, we started to follow them over a steep slope of heavy moss. They were romping across, clutching onto the moss and completely ignoring the torrent sixty feet below at the bottom of the slope. Suddenly I was sure I felt the sheet of moss under my feet slip—as moss will on granite. I shouted to the children not to move, and worked my way up a crack of bare granite, pushing John ahead of me—then anchored myself to a bush. I made the children crawl up, one by one, to where there were some bushes to hang onto. From there they worked up to a tree.
Elizabeth had to come to our help. Holding onto a firm bush, she lowered herself down until John could catch hold of her feet and pull himself up and past her. Then holding onto Elizabeth’s feet, I put one foot on the moss and sprang forward, clutched a bush and then somebody’s hand....The youngsters were all safely anchored to a tree and I to a bush—and we sat there watching in horror as the big sheet of moss, to which I had just given the final push, gathered momentum and slid down and over the edge.
“I want to go home,” wailed John.
“So do I,” echoed Peter, his superior years forgotten.
“Don’t be sillies!” I said sharply, recovering my breath.
“How....?” they all moaned.
“How what?” I snapped.
“Get home....?” they meekly sniffed.
Well, I wasn’t quite sure at that stage. Besides, I was shaken. As soon as the moss slid, I had recognized the bush I was hanging on to—it was the bush in my dream.
Straight up seemed to be the only way we could go. Tree by tree all linked together, we finally got onto quite a wide ledge. And there on the ledge was a distinct trail.
“Why, it’s that old she-bear’s track again!” cried somebody.
“And that must have been her bridge!” said somebody else.
“Well, she certainly knows how to choose a good safe path,” I said—wishing I knew which way she and her cub might come strolling.
I certainly didn’t want to go over the trembling bridge again—so we followed the trail the other way. Going by the logger’s tale, it should lead us to the old skid-road and then down to the cabin.
“Isn’t she a nice old bear to make this nice path,” said John hopefully—tightly clutching my hand.
“Silly!” said Peter, clutching onto my belt behind.
“Let’s sing,” I suggested.
So, all singing loudly, we followed the nice bear’s trail....A nice bear—whom I fervently hoped didn’t care for singing.
LAKES
SOMETIMES DURING THE LONG SUMMERS WE WOULD GET a longing to soak the salt out of ourselves. Charts are concerned only with the sea—they are not interested in what lies beyond the shores. They mark all the mountains for a mile inland—the highest ones with the altitude not
ed. But they are all aids to navigation. At the bottom of some charts they even have pictures of how the mountains rear and fold at the entrance to various sounds. Navigators approaching strange shores, and confronted with a solid line of mountains, know from the pictures that if they approach a mountain of a certain altitude, with other mountains that fold in a certain way on to either side—then a certain sound or harbour will open out as they approach closer.
But it has evidently never occurred to the cartographer that a small navigator might like to know of a small lake where he could soak the salt out. Archibald Menzies, the botanist who accompanied Captain Vancouver on the first trip up this coast, often made special notes of the waterfalls they came across. I expect they did use them for filling up the water casks as well. But I always have a mental picture of Captain Vancouver, Archibald Menzies, the botanist, and the other young gentlemen standing under the waterfalls—soaking out the salt.
After all, Vancouver’s ships were on the coast for four months in 1792. They took shelter and anchored at night in the same coves as we did. They did most of their exploring in their small boats. Except for trying to make friends with the Indians, many of whom had not seen white men before, they lived the same kind of life that we did, and were concerned with the same kind of problems. So it is natural to suppose that they, too, liked to get the salt out at times.
Waterfalls are all right in their way, but they are usually cold. The lakes that over the years we have marked on our charts in red are warm. To qualify for the red mark there must also be a safe place to leave the boat. The lakes are often some distance inland, and you can’t soak properly if you are worrying about your boat. It was sometimes fishermen, but usually loggers, who told us about these lakes. They would mark on the chart the bay in which to look for the stream—if we couldn’t find or use the old skid-road.
“Just walk up the bed of the stream and you’ll come to the lake. We were in there ten or fifteen years ago—logging,” they would say.
Once, following directions like that, we were lucky to find the stream. If we hadn’t noticed it coming out through the rocks at low tide it would have been impossible to find. There was an almost impenetrable fringe of alders, maples and salmon berries above the beach—which we worried and tore at. When we finally broke through, we were in a mysterious low tunnel of green growth—all clutching to hold us back. The little stream eddied and gurgled on its way to the sea.
It was twilight in there, and what with getting scratched with branches and slipping off the rocks, we one by one came to the conclusion that fifteen years was a long time to remember just which bay. At this rate we would never find the lake. Then, suddenly, it was lighter ahead, and the sun came through in shafts, making irregular, shimmering patches on the stream. At last we struggled and broke through onto the shore of the little hidden lake.
I don’t know how long that little unnamed lake was—two miles at least, and perhaps half a mile wide. It was set down in the centre of pale-green growth—alders and maples that had rapidly covered the scars the loggers had left. And above the new growth more high, dark-green hills, fold on fold. Halfway down the lake a very disturbed loon was calling and calling....I don’t suppose anyone had been in here since the loggers had left, and probably its mother had told it that man never came here.
We swam and we soaked, then lay in the sun, thoroughly fagged out for the moment. Fresh water is enervating compared with salt water, and much harder to swim in. The youngsters found some little turtles sunning themselves on a log. When the whispering began, I knew that they were planning to keep them in the boat for the rest of the summer. How awful to have to face up to a thing like that, feeling as limp as I did! Then, fortunately, John’s turtle bit his finger. When I heard him say sternly to it, “You are very rude, you can go right back to your mother,” I knew that the problem was partially solved. But I would certainly have to keep an eye on Peter, or a turtle would turn up in the boat later.
Peter and John went exploring along the deer-trail on the edge of the lake. The two little naked boys suddenly began dancing up and down on the shore. “We found a dugout, we found a dugout!” Jan ran over to investigate. More shouts, and I ran too. It was long and very old, but it floated. It didn’t take us long with our knives to fashion paddles out of this and that. Then, lunch-pail tucked in the bow, we paddled down the lake towards a low rocky point about a mile away. The dugout leaked quite a bit, and finally Peter and John had to take turns bailing with the lunch-pail. The loon was having hysterics now. Probably its wife and nest were hidden in the reeds that filled a little bay. The water was smooth as a looking-glass, and our reflection followed along under us as though we were hinged together. I would have liked to linger on that lake, but the water in the dugout was gaining on us, and it seemed expedient, as Captain Vancouver would have said, to make the shore.
There were signs that deer had been browsing in behind the rocky point, where maples overhung the cropped green grass. They would lie there in the shade on a hot afternoon, and their spotted babies would be hidden in the bracken beyond. How can a mother deer stand the constant alert for prowling bears or cougars? A doe’s ears are always turning this way and that, tuning in on the slightest sound—smelling the wind for a betraying scent. I seldom had to tune in for anything worse than a turtle that might bite.
We turned the dugout over to dry while we ate our lunch on the shelving rock. We tried to caulk the crack with pine-needles and pitch. It was a long, long crack, but half a crack is better than a whole crack. Paddling back with the bits of this and that was harder than before—but bailing was reduced by half.
It was an effort in that limp state to have to squeeze through the pale-green tunnel again....Then the children cornered a ten-inch trout by damming up its escape route. The trout never had a chance against three pairs of hands. I got tired of waiting while they planned further strategy. Telling them that I would light a fire on the beach, and bring the supper things ashore, I pushed ahead, and finally broke through to the beach, head first.
I lighted a fire and piled it up with bark—estimating that in an hour’s time there would be a glowing bed of embers, just right for broiling trout.
It was the sound of their voices that woke me up. All smiling broadly...they actually had caught three more.
“That little one is John’s,” Peter announced, “because he can’t eat as much.”
“I can so—I’m just starved.”
“Well, Jan and Peter have to clean them,” I said, and took him out to the boat with me to prevent murder.
We always carried a rack for broiling fish. Soon they were spluttering and browning over a perfect fire, which I raked over between two flat stones. We built it up with more driftwood, which is always piled high at the top of the beaches on the British Columbia coast.
No one had any desire to fool around that evening. John fell asleep before it was even dark. The Northern Lights were edging this way...and that way...across the northern sky—reaching up above us—white and elusive, then retreating hurriedly down to the horizon.
It wasn’t until Jan suddenly said, “Mummy, where’s the dinghy?” that my spirit returned to its limp body.
I didn’t actually have to swim—but very nearly. Somebody had committed the sin of sins—not tied it properly. I didn’t ask. I didn’t probe too deeply within myself—evidently a certain amount of salt is better than too little.
SHINERS
I LEFT THE CHILDREN LYING ON THEIR STOMACHS ON THE FLOAT, fishing for shiners with thread and a bent pin. Shiners are little glittering fishes that like to congregate under wharfs or floats. They are thin, but almost round in profile.
When I rowed back later the children all started shouting to me as soon as I was within ear-shot.
“Mine did it first! Mine did it first! It did too, Jan.” That was Peter’s voice.
I finally made myself heard. “If Peter’s did, whatever it did, first—then let him tell me, whatever it did, first.”<
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“My fish borned a baby,” he brought out triumphantly.
“Mine kept borning and borning them,” added John with scorn. “I just squeezed it.”
“Anyway, it’s perfectly true,” said Jan, “and they can swim right away. We’ll show you.”
I waited while they baited up their pins with bits of sea-worm, and lay down to catch more shiners—dangling the bait in front of the seeking mouths. I sat there full of superior knowledge. I have several times caught salmon that had been feeding heavily among the brit, and have had them regurgitate a minnow that was quite able to swim away; pressed it again in getting the hook out—and another small Jonah had made the world. I would wait until they showed me, and then I would explain to them the habits of fish.
They waited until they had each caught a shiner, then crouched there waiting for the miracle to happen.
“Squeeze them,” finally ordered Jan.
They squeezed them....From the vent of each shiner came forth a perfectly formed silver baby. They were slim and narrow, not round and deep like their mothers. The second they were put in the water they darted to the bottom—to the weeds and safety. John kept on squeezing his, and his fish went on borning babies just as he had said. But each next baby was more transparent than the last; and they began to look like vague little ghosts with all their inner workings showing through. When you dropped them in the water they seemed all bewildered—and in seconds the big shiners closed in and swallowed them at a gulp, and eagerly waited around for more. I stopped John then, and explained that they were not ready to be born yet. That their mother probably let only one out each day, when it was properly finished and had all its instincts and was able to fend for itself in the big sea. Undoubtedly—now that I knew—these shiner babies were being born all the time, at certain seasons. Perhaps their mothers were wise and only borned them in the dark night—then tiny phosphorescent streaks would dart for the seaweed. Then the awful thought reared its head—did the mothers know their own babies? Or did the babies have to elude the tigerish pounce of their own mother? It didn’t bear thinking about.
The Curve of Time Page 3