When we got back to Little House in the fall, I would find out from the “Encyclopædia Britannica (1885),” just what it had to say about all this. Perhaps, for a change, I’d be able to tell it something it didn’t know. After all, “Encyclopædia Britannica (1885)” states quite calmly, in black print, that malaria comes from the bad night air. Then I remembered my own little lecture, which fortunately had never been delivered. I conceded in my mind that we all make mistakes.
“Encyclopædia Britannica (1885)”....Yes, it knew all about viviparous fish—these shiners, as we called them, are a kind of rock perch. They and many others of that species are viviparous.
A FISH WE REMEMBER
WE HAD TUCKED INTO THE LITTLE COVE AT THE NORTH end of Denman Island for the night, with no intention of staying over the next day. We had made a fire on the north-east beach, the only place there was any beach left above a very high tide. It was a still, quiet evening, and when it was dark the salmon started rising to the light that our fire cast on the calm water. Peter was feverishly carving a spear and hardening its point in the fire—just in case a fish came close enough to the little rocky point.
Off the end of Denman Island there is a great sandy bar that extends more than half a mile to the north and more than four miles west, almost to Cape Lazo. Plain sand would not be such a menace, but all the shallows are strewn with great boulders, which I think must wander all over the place in big winds. Just as you can move a boulder out of your garden by tucking more soil underneath it with the crowbar until it moves slowly but surely up to the surface, in the same way the big waves and the sand shift the boulders here and there.
It means going a long way round to Cape Lazo, to get past this sandy bar. If you try to cut through, you are suddenly surrounded by a maze of boulders. Every time you turn to avoid one, another steps directly in front of you to block your way. In other summers you may have taken fixes on distant points or trees, and think you have worked out a passage. But the boulders have anticipated this—and have spent the intervening time inching their way into your supposed channel. At low tide there is perhaps six feet of water over the sand—sometimes more, sometimes less—but no one ever knows how much over the boulders.
A salmon rises and splashes in the fire-light, and then a seal surfaces with a loud snort. Peter, who has been standing on the rock with his spear poised for the last half-hour, groans, “Missed, just by inches.” We all laugh, for it had been at least six feet.
Then I hurry everyone off to bed. Peter is crying because there will never be another chance like this. I who knew he never had a chance at all, console him by saying we will tie a heavy fish-line to it next time and he can cast the spear. A minute later he is laughing about the seal who had snorted because it had also missed the fish by inches.
I had planned to leave after breakfast and cut across to the mainland and up into Desolation Sound. And here I was gazing out over low tide on the sand-flats—the sea like glass and not a cloud in the sky; and surely after lunch would do just as well....The youngsters sat there watching me anxiously, with deep sighs....Then—they somehow knew before I did myself that we were going to stay, and I had to hurry up with the proviso: “Just until after lunch.”
The tide must have been slack as well as low, for not a ripple nor a current stirred the surface of the water as we drifted silently over the sandy bottom and the surprised boulders. I just gave a gentle pull on the oars now and then...trying to blend ourselves in with the life of the sand-dwellers below.
Big red crabs with enormous claws would sidle across at an angle—making for the shelter of a boulder. We didn’t know who their enemies were. Perhaps they didn’t know who we were. We must have appeared like strange two-headed beasts to them—our faces joined nose to nose with our reflections in the water.
Bands of silvery minnows darted in unison—first here, then there. Some unknown mass signal seemed to control them—like sand-pipers flying low over the edge of a beach—the fluid concerted movement, concave edge changing to convex, and then vice versa....Or crows at some unknown signal dropping helter-skelter, head over heels, down through the air towards earth and destruction...then as suddenly resuming their flight on normal wings like perfectly sane crows. With the minnows we could see that it was probably a preservation idea—they and their shadows escaping bigger shadows and threatening dangers. But who gives the signal and how is it made?
“Look! Look!” in whispers, first from one and then the others. I could see on my side of the dinghy, but not on John’s. Jan up in the bow had a sea of her own—Peter’s end, particularly his.
Suddenly, on my side, suspended perfectly motionless about four feet down in the shadow cast by the dinghy, was a strange fish—as though there by intent, waiting for us.
“Ss-s-s-se-e,” I hissed, pointing carefully...and all the crew hung, suspended motionless and precariously, over the edge—all eyes focused on the fish.
It was about two feet long, shaped rather like a salmon, but there the resemblance ended. This fish was a pale cream colour, laced over with half-inch bands of old gold in a large diamond pattern. Its eyes were dark, large and oval. Dark folds or eyelids opened and shut, opened and shut....It lay there chewing, or was it the gills like a jaw-line that gave it the ruminating appearance?
Something hadn’t liked this cream-and-gold fish—one piece of its tail was gone, and one of its side-fins was torn and ragged—all rather dishevelled and routed looking.
It just lay there quietly—raising and lowering its large oval eyelids; we suspended in our dinghy, it suspended in the safety of our shadow. That of course was probably why it was there—for protection.
Then a seal broke water and the glassy surface was in a turmoil. When it had quietened, our cream-and-gold fish had gone.
“Probably the same seal that ruined my fish last night.” said Peter.
Then he and Jan slid into the water and tried to see how many boulders they could touch before they got to shore.
The tide was rising and the water still so glassy that, when we left after lunch, we cut across the bar of sand and the boulders with John and Peter lying flat in the bow. Then we ambled across the twenty-five-mile stretch of open water towards Savary Island over on the mainland. We fooled around and tried to find Mystery Reef and couldn’t. Then we moved on up to the Ragged Islands for supper, and perhaps the night. I think we all felt groggy with the glare off the water, and it was good to get in close to the cliffs in the shade.
There seemed to be a slight, hardly noticeable swell as I cooked supper with one foot up on the steering-seat as usual. The air was almost oppressively still, and my face was burning like fire. A tugboat tooted at the entrance to the cove; he wanted to tie up just where we were anchored. Why on earth did they want to tie up on an evening like this? Then the pieces began to fall into place, and I snatched Jan’s bathing-cap off the barometer where it had hung all day. The glass was down to 29 and it had been over 31 at breakfast time.
I told Jan to take over the supper and handed the table that lived on top of the engine-box to Peter, and told them to carry on. I waved at the tug, which tooted again, and I pulled up the anchor. If we were going to ride out a south-easter, we would do it up in Desolation Sound in the cove on Mink Island, where there was water and room to move around—not in a ragged cove with a restless boom.
Before we reached Mink Island, the mares’ tails in the sky were trailing wildly. Then it was dark and the waves at our heels were throwing the phosphorus out ahead of them.
The stars only showed now and then, and it was hard to find the entrance to the cove. I sent Jan up on deck with the flashlight—and after a little while we made out the sheltering points and crept thankfully in and round the turn to drop our hook.
COUGAR
WE NEVER STARTED OFF AT THE BEGINNING OF THE SUMMER expecting trouble or exciting things—at least, not after the first couple of years. Then, I think, we were looking for adventures. Later, when we found out what a
dventures were like, we tried to avoid them, but they came anyway. So, after that, except for “exercising due care,” as the early explorers said, we neither anticipated them nor tried to avoid them. We just accepted them as a normal part of the increasing number of miles we logged every summer.
This summer we had exercised due care by leaving our Gordon setter at home. Other summers she had always come with us—enduring it rather than liking it, I think. She always had to tow behind in the dinghy, unless it was really rough. If we didn’t have the sense to know when that stage was reached—she always did. Instead of lying quietly asleep on her sack in the stern-sheets of the dinghy, she would suddenly sit straight up. Her nose would swing from side to side, trying to decide what was blowing up, what the barometer was doing. She would look at the waves on one side of her, then on the other—turning over in her mind how long she would wait before she made her demands.
When the first spray from a slightly bigger wave reached her, she would put on her long-suffering, determined look and move up into the bow of the dinghy. Then the dinghy would yaw—first to one side and then to the other—Pam ageing visibly with each swing. She was completely deaf to every command to go back to her proper seat.
“Mummy,” Peter would plead, “she’s terrified!” Wily old Pam—salt-water crocodile tears streaming down her face.
“All right....” I would say grudgingly—knowing exactly what would happen at the next stage, when the waves got a little bigger. “Pull her in.”
Everyone sprang to the rope, while I slowed the boat down. Before they could pull the dinghy to within four feet, Pam would gather her feet together and, with a magnificent leap, land lightly on the after-deck—smiling broadly. Everybody patted her, everybody loved her. She curled up happily on the coil of rope and went to sleep.
Another half-hour and she sat up again—bolt upright. No need for her to look at the barometer—she knew. “When are we going to get out of this?” her eyes and set of her mouth demanded. I was standing up to steer now, and the youngsters were playing cards on the little table that was wedged in between the two bunks. There was a shriek of “Pam!” One leap had landed her in the middle of the cards. The next up against the back of my legs in the only few square inches left on the deck of the cockpit. She didn’t dare smile this time. Nor did anyone dare pat her.
John climbed up onto the steering seat beside me. “She’s very bad, isn’t she?” he said. “Is it very rough?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Pam is just being silly. See that point over there—we go in behind that.”
“Where?” asked Jan, moving up beside me.
“My, it’s rough!” said Peter, pushing in too. “Pam always knows, doesn’t she?”
“How am I supposed to steer, with a dog lying on my feet, and my silly crew jamming both my arms?” I demanded.
But all that was not why I decided to leave her at home this time. It was what happened last summer on our way north. We had anchored in Melanie Cove off Desolation Sound for a few days to enjoy the warm swimming. Then it clouded up and started to rain. The mountains back of Desolation Sound seem at times to be a favourite rendezvous for clouds that are undecided where to go. They drape themselves forlornly on all the high peaks, trail themselves down the gorges, and then unload themselves as rain on the sea at the mountains’ feet.
Pam had either to sleep on shore at night or else in the dinghy, which she prefers. That night it was so wet that I moved the boat over against the shore, on the opposite side from the copper stain on the cliff. There is an old shed there raised on short posts that is nice and dry underneath. Pam had spent wet nights there before, so she knew the place and raised no objections. The children rowed her ashore, fixed up a bed of bracken for her, and left her with a dish of food.
Then we got the Coleman stove going and supper on, and were soon dry and comfortable. It was surprising how comfortable we could be on a rainy day in that little boat. With the heavy canvas side-curtains buttoned securely down, the back curtain stretched open at an angle for fresh air—the two-burner stove on top of the steering seat would soon dry all the inside of the boat and us. We got the sleeping bags out early, and everything straightened. Unless we were sitting round a fire on the beach or rocks we always turned in before it was quite dark. It was a dead calm night, with not a sound except the hiss of the falling rain and the plop of the raindrops as they hit the sea and made little spurting craters.
I don’t know how late it was when something wakened me. I listened...trying to orientate myself...trying to remember just where we were anchored. Then Pam whined—and there was something desperate in the tone. I groped for the flashlight and unfastened the curtain beside me. It was still pouring. I shone the light towards the shed—but there was no sign of Pam where they had made her bed. Another whine from somewhere nearer us than the shed. I swung the beam down the shore to the edge of the water. Another whine, and I had to lower it still farther....There, up to her neck in the sea, was Pam.
“Pam!” I said. “What is the matter?”
She glanced nervously towards the shore; then turned back and whined. Obviously she wanted to come on board; and obviously there wasn’t an inch of room. The dinghy, where she often slept in fine weather, was half-full of water—and the sky was giving us all it had. Pam didn’t like bears—but a black bear wouldn’t bother her, tucked under a shed like that. I coaxed and pleaded, and finally ordered her back to bed. Slowly...so slowly...she splashed back and got under the shed. There she sat—glancing first over one shoulder, then the other. I flashed the light all over the woods. I called. I talked loudly to scare away any bear that might be around. Finally, Pam went farther under the shed and curled up on her bracken bed. I hushed the questioning crew back to sleep, and went to sleep myself.
It was about six o’clock when I awoke again. The clouds had broken up and a shafted sun was trying to disperse the mist. I unfastened the curtain and looked towards the shed. I needn’t have looked so far. There in the water, up to her neck, was Pam—looking like a sad seal that had just surfaced. How long she had been there, we didn’t know. We bailed out the dinghy, and two of the youngsters rowed ashore and took Pam off. I made them take her across to an island on the other side and race her up and down to get her warm, while I cooked a big pot of rolled oats for her. With heaps of sugar and evaporated milk, that must have been the morning of a dog’s heaven. Then we put her on deck in the sun. She was warm and dry and happy. But in spite of all the questioning, she wouldn’t tell anyone why she had done such a foolish thing.
After breakfast we pulled up the anchor and went round to Laura Cove to get some eggs from Phil, the old Frenchman who lived there. I told him what had happened in the night, and said I supposed it must have been a bear.
“Dat weren’t no bear,” said Phil, emphatically. “A dog don’t act that way about a bear. Dat were a cougar, an’ I suppose it will be atter my goats next.”
Pam got badly spoiled after that. She was a heroine—she had outwitted a cougar.
On our way south again, six weeks later, we called in at Phil Lavine’s again. As soon as he saw our boat, he hurried down to the float. Hardly waiting to say, “Hello,” he started off excitedly:
“Say, you remember dat night your dog stayed in de water all night? Well, de next night dat cougar got my old billy-goat on dat little island where I keep ‘im.” He pointed to a small island not very far from where we stood. He had heard the old goat bleating or screaming at about four in the morning, and knew that something was wrong. He grabbed his gun; ran down to the float and rowed across. There was a great round boulder on the beach, and he could see the head and shoulders of the goat sticking out on one side. The goat was lying on the ground and he thought it might have broken its leg, for it kept making this awful noise. He stepped out of the boat and started towards it—then turned back and picked up his gun.
“Atter dat dog of yours I weren’t taking no chances,” he said. He skirted out and around the boulder..
..There, hanging on to the hind-end of the goat, was a full-sized cougar.
“I got ‘im first shot—between de eyes...den I ‘ad to shoot de goat.”
We followed him up to the woodshed, where he had the skin pegged out on the wall. It was a big one, eight or nine feet long. Pam gave one sniff at it and slunk back to the boat.
“See!” said Phil, “dat ain’t no bear-acting!”
I realized it wasn’t—Pam barks hysterically when she runs from a bear.
“Don’t you let dos kids of your sleep on shore wid de dog at night—ever. De cougar would be atter de dog, but de kids might get hurt too.”
Nothing would have induced any of them to sleep on shore again, with or without the dog—after seeing that skin.
DESOLATION
WE BUCKED A STRONG TIDE AND WEST WIND, AND RAN for ten hours that day before we finally turned in by Sarah Point. From there we set a straight course for Mink Island, where there is good shelter and fresh water from a small fall.
It was good to be on land again. We made a fire on the sloping rock, and while waiting for it to burn down to embers we swam and played around in the warm water. I had just started to think about supper when a boat we knew came into the bay and presented us with a chunk of out-of-season venison. We cut it into steaks and broiled it, then ate it in our hands on big slices of bread—hoping that it would look and smell like lamb, if any unfriendly boat came into the bay.
Vancouver had named this part of the coast Desolation Sound. On their return from Jervis Inlet—tired, disappointed, and out of food—and when they turned south to rejoin their ships, they were very surprised to find two Spanish vessels at anchor off Burrard Inlet. The Sutil, under command of Senor Don Galiano, and the Mexicana, under Senor Don Valdes.
The Curve of Time Page 4