A Trail of Broken Dreams

by Barbara Haworth-Attard

  July 29, 1862

  We are on our way again to Cariboo! We will be there in a few weeks! I am so glad. The fort was beginning to smell quite ripe, between all the people and animals. We are to take the Tête Jaune Pass. A guide has been hired — André Cardinal. Some say the Tête Jaune Pass is the more difficult because of trees fallen on the trail, but quicker. The way I see it, the faster I can get to Father, the better!

  Night

  It took a little longer than expected to set out. We go by pack train now rather than cart, and the oxen did not appreciate having pack saddles placed upon their backs. As fast as we put the loads on, the oxen shook them off. I helped Talbot, though I kept a close watch on the oxen’s feet, as they were not shy about knocking us about with their hooves. There are a hundred and forty mules, horses and oxen now. A Mr. Felix Munroe has been hired to pack extra supplies for us, as there is no room left on our own animals. Because we took so long to prepare, we only went 10 miles to the settlement of St. Albert.

  August 1862

  August 1, 1862

  St. Anne’s Mission

  I’m exhausted. Struggled through mud up to my knees, and climbed over fallen trees and through thickets. Six men with axes went ahead, chopping a trail through the bush, but the trees stand so thick we had to pass single file. Then we came to a swamp: black mud sucking at our feet, and submerged roots tripping us and twining about the horses’ hooves and needing to be cut away so they can move. The oxen do better here than horses. Those who refused to give up their carts soon regretted it, as the carts are frequently mired past their axles and it is quite a job to get them out. Never have I felt so glad to see a place as this small settlement of St. Anne’s. I barely had the strength to help Talbot unload our packs from the oxen.

  Which reminds me, dear diary. Talbot is becoming tiresome. He rushes to my aid, won’t let me lift the packs. When no one was within hearing, I whispered to him to stop treating me like I was fine china!

  “But you’re a girl,” he whispered back. It was a forward thing to do, but I pulled back my shirtsleeve and exposed my arm nearly to the shoulder and bent it to show him the muscle there. He turned a most interesting red that climbed right up his neck to his face and set his ears on fire.

  I think Mrs. Schubert was glad to rest here also. It was a horrible day. At one point, little Gus fell off his horse and was nearly trampled by the one behind him. It almost stopped my heart, so I know Mrs. Schubert’s must have stopped altogether!

  And Mrs. Schubert’s horse couldn’t bear her weight in the swamp, so she had to wade through the mud in her long skirts, grasping the children’s hands and pulling them along. Then Mary Jane fussed until I took her with me. I entertained her for a bit with some stories that I had told Luella, then she fussed again and I returned her to her mother. I wanted to tell Mrs. Schubert that trousers are much easier to walk in than skirts, but couldn’t quite figure out how without revealing I am a girl!

  It is pretty, this St. Anne’s. It’s a mission and settlement on the shores of a beautiful lake. The fields are tilled and ripe berries are everywhere for the picking. Smoke curls from the fires of a small encampment of half-breeds, all watched over by a little church. There are three priests and at least that many nuns, the first white women we have seen since we left Fort Garry. One of the nuns does not appear to be much older than myself! One of the men travelling with us called the nuns slaves of Satan — he does not like Catholics. He states very loudly to anyone who’ll listen that he is Protestant. I am Protestant myself, but I do not see any tails or horns here — except on the oxen!

  I want to go into the church. You see, dear diary, I am forgetting Mama — her face, her voice — and I’m scared I’ll lose her entirely. I thought perhaps being inside a church would make me feel closer to her, help me remember. But I don’t know if Catholics will let Protestants into their church and I am afraid to ask.

  Poor Mr. Morrow, whose head was run over before, got kicked in the face today by his ox! He is to stay at St. Anne’s until he recovers. If I were him, I would think twice about continuing to Cariboo!

  August 2, 1862

  The trail becomes more difficult. As before, six men go ahead of us and cut through brush and trees to clear a path. The going is slow. Muddy ground sucks at our feet, making each step torture. My legs ache constantly, but after showing Talbot my arm muscle, I certainly cannot complain. The horses are not doing well. They become mired down easily and the men carry the horses’ packs! The oxen continue to do better. We are leaving quite a trail of belongings behind us — valises, clothing, pots — as many try to lighten their load.

  August 3, 1862

  I am so tired and sore. I will never make it to the gold fields. I should never have come! I want to go home! I want to be back in our house by the mill!

  August 4, 1862

  Mr. Dyer is not well. We are camped beside the Pembina River. This river is deep and rapid and roars in my ears. The men are trying to decide how to ford it. A hill next over to us is smoking! At first some men thought it to be a volcano, but it is a smouldering seam of coal. Talbot is caring for his father, so I have gathered enough of the coal to build a large fire to warm him. It is very quiet, with only the sound of rushing water to fill the silence. No one has the strength to talk.

  August 5, 1862

  When we woke this morning it was cold. Heavy dew had frozen and hung in icicles from the trees, sparkling in the morning sun. Talbot and I packed up as Mr. Dyer rested. He shivers constantly and has a bad cough. Mama would have put a mustard plaster on his chest. Dr. Stevenson has dosed him with some syrup and Mr. Dyer said it did him wonders, but I couldn’t see any improvement in him.

  This guide has proven a good one. He showed the men how to take the tents, stretch them on the ground and put all the supplies into them. Then he folded the tops together and tied them shut with a rope. Horses towed the bundles across the river. Talbot and I crossed behind an ox, holding a rope tied to its harness, up to our neck in water. Mr. Dyer rode a horse across, but he might as well have swum as he got so wet. It just about did him completely in.

  August 6, 1862

  Mr. Dyer got up this morning, walked for about an hour, then fell down and could not get back up. He, Talbot and I are camped here on the only patch of dry ground we could find in the swamp. Talbot urged me to go on with the others, but I didn’t feel right leaving them. They have been kind to me. Besides, there are many stragglers spread out along the trail, so we can join up with one of them when Mr. Dyer is well. At least that is what I tell myself when my stomach gets butterflies. The truth is, I’m very afraid of being left behind to find our own way over the mountains without a guide.

  It is so quiet here, just the three of us. The only sounds are rustling in the undergrowth, an occasional bird-call, the snuffling of oxen and Mr. Dyer’s ragged coughing. Talbot is white-faced with worry. I told him a day’s rest would set his father right, but I don’t believe myself. I can’t stand the silence, so I’m writing in you, dear diary, to keep my fears at bay. If only there were something to see! But tree branches hide the sky, thick woods press in from either side, mud is beneath our feet, and dark shadows are everywhere. I’m terrified of spending a night here.

  August 7, 1862

  Mr. Dyer still unwell! This afternoon I suddenly remembered one winter when I had a dreadful cough and Mama’s remedy for it, so we decided to try it. We’ve built the fire quite high, and have boiled water in our largest pot. We then placed a blanket over both the pot and Mr. Dyer, so he could breathe in the steam. We are also making him drink many cups of weak tea. We will do this throughout the night and hope for the best.

  August 8, 1862

  We had a time of it, but Mr. Dyer is on the mend. This morning, as the queer green light filtered through the trees, I brought another cup of tea to Mr. Dyer, but he waved me off, sat up and said, “You have me fair swimming, boy!” That’s when we knew he was on the mend. I think even Talbot and I were better f
or the enforced rest. We started off again, slowly, with frequent stops for Mr. Dyer to catch his breath. With the trail having been cleared by those in front of us, the going is easier.

  I had one moment today that nearly stopped my heart. We came upon a grave! It said James Doherty. I couldn’t breathe, as it suddenly occurred to me that this might be why I had not heard any more from Father other than his one letter. Perhaps he died in Cariboo and is buried in a grave such as this. The idea wormed its way inside my head and would not leave. I sniffed back tears for a long time after that until Mr. Dyer said that he hoped I was not catching his cold.

  August 9, 1862

  We have caught up to the main party.

  August 10, 1862

  All has been found out — by everyone, not just Talbot. They all know I am a girl! It is Sunday so we are camped for the day. I was writing in my diary this morning. A man walked by and asked what I was doing. I told him I was writing my memories of our journey. “You want to remember this?” he asked.

  I told him that I did.

  “Funny, I just want to forget it,” he said. He walked away, and suddenly my diary was pulled from my hand. John!

  He ripped a page of my precious paper out and let it float away in the wind. He started to rip a second one, when I saw red and ran at him and tackled him and knocked him to the ground, hands pummelling him. He easily shoved me away, and came at me with a fist. I rolled away, but not quick enough, and caught a clip on my ear. It stunned me, and I thought, I’m really in for it now. Then another body joined the fray and John went flying into the dirt. Talbot straddled him and yelled, “Don’t you ever hit her again!” HER! That is what he said. John scrambled to his feet and stared at me. “He’s a girl?”

  Talbot’s face was a picture as he realized what he’d said. Under other circumstances, I would have quite enjoyed seeing it, but not now. Then, like wind whispering from tree to tree, I heard the words “a girl” pass through the camp. Mr. Dyer is furious at Talbot for lying, though I tried to explain to him that it was my fault.

  Then, in front of the entire company, I was asked to speak up for myself and tell why I’d practised this deception. I imagine this is how it feels for a criminal to be before a court of law, faces and eyes upon him as he tells his tale.

  I told them the entire story, about Father, Mrs. Owen, Luella and William, and Mama dying. A couple of the men wiped their eyes to hear of her passing, and I hoped they would speak up for me. John and Thomas Drummond said I should be sent back with Mr. Munroe, who is returning to Fort Edmonton tomorrow, as we no longer need him to pack supplies.

  “Why does she have to go back?” Joe asked. “She’s a sturdy little lad.”

  “That’s just it,” Henry told him, much exasperated. “She’s not a lad! She’s a girl!”

  John said I would slow them all down, but Henry pointed out that so far I’d kept up with no difficulty, and then went on to say, “And she gave you a fair wallop.” There were a lot of smiles and snorts at that, though not from John or Thomas. I almost stuck my tongue out at him, but remembered in time that they knew I was a girl and I could no longer do that. They are still discussing my fate!

  Evening

  I am to continue on! Mrs. Schubert spoke up and said she’d have me travel with them. She told the men she thought it better than having me go back with the guide alone, and most agreed. I thanked the group and apologized, feeling very small indeed! Mrs. Schubert offered me a skirt of her own, but I told her I found the boy’s clothes more to my suiting. She half-smiled, which made me think she’d prefer them, too.

  August 11, 1862

  We cross a river a day now; sometimes the very same river three or four times when we find the way blocked on one side or the other by windfall or rocks. The rivers have funny names — Root River, Buffalo Dung River. Some men swim across, some ride their horses. As I can’t swim, I either get a ride or hold onto the tail of a horse and let myself be towed across. Unfortunately, it often means I am wet all day long. Our progress is slow. We are lucky to make 10 miles a day. The woods are thick and the only time we see something other than trees is when we come to a river. Talbot says he is growing tired of nothing to look at but the “arse” of the ox in front of him. Mr. Dyer told him to mind his language, with a meaningful glance at me. Now that I think about it, I realize all the men bite their tongue around me, the way they do Mrs. Schubert. It’s too bad — I was acquiring quite a stock of what Mama would call “colourful words” to impress William.

  Here it is almost two and a half months into our journey, and we are still in the mountains. I think now that those folks who told us we’d be in the gold fields in two months never travelled this way! I am thankful for our guide, as there is no apparent trail for us to follow, just occasional marks blazed into the bark of the trees to show our way. I doubt we would find them on our own. Our food is running low, so we are eating but two meals a day. Mrs. Schubert, I notice, often passes her portion to the children, which makes me feel quite guilty to be eating all mine myself, but I’m so hungry by the end of the day’s march I can’t help it.

  August 13, 1862

  No amount of imagining could prepare me for our first sight of the Rocky Mountains! We came out of a thick swamp today and there they were before us. White peaks against the blue sky, the lower slopes black with evergreens. Never have I seen anything so magnificent. I cannot even describe them to you, dear diary, as words seem so inadequate. Mr. McMicking says we are still 100 miles away, yet their snow-capped tops are clearly visible. I will try to sketch them to keep the memory, though I know my effort won’t even begin to reflect their majesty. Most importantly, on the other side of the mountains is Father! It won’t be long now.

  August 14, 1862

  A horse gave out today. Many other animals are very weak, as there is no pasturage for them. I am so hungry my stomach presses against my spine.

  August 16, 1862

  If I ever see home again, I swear I’ll never stir from it!

  August 17, 1862

  Some of the men did not want to take our Sunday rest. There is little food and they thought to press on, but the majority won out and we are camped for the day. It is a good thing, as I am very tired. We are a threadbare looking group now; the men’s beards unkempt, tears and holes in our clothes, both clothes and ourselves filthy from not having had a wash for a while. I’m proud to say I caught a fair number of trout in the river today, which I fried over the fire and shared, but still our provisions are very low, so we are on rations. It takes all our strength to travel, with none left over to hunt or fish by nightfall. It is, though, beautiful here, the mountains towering above us, the sky blue, the river flashing silver in the sun. There is little talk among the men, as most sit with their thoughts. I took out Mama’s watch and held it close, remembering it pinned to her chest, pretending the steady tick was her heart yet beating.

  Talbot has gone to see if he can find anything to shoot for the cooking pot, but there is a new strangeness between us that neither of us will talk about, so I feel doubly alone. I have been helping Mrs. Schubert with the children today, as I am trying not to put myself forward so the men won’t regret letting me continue.

  John walked by and made a point of kicking up stones with his feet to hit me as he passed, but I’m too tired to bother making a fuss.

  August 19, 1862, morning

  Got little sleep, as there was a fierce thunderstorm last evening. The worst I’ve ever seen. The sky darkened like night and lightning struck from peak to peak, while thunder rang in our ears and wind tore at our tents. Joe was quite wild-eyed with fear, which ordinarily would seem funny in such a big man, but it was a storm like none of us has experienced before, and we were all scared.

  We go up and up, and at times the trail leads between towering walls of rock. One of the men said it made him right nervous having all that rock lean over top of him, and give him the open plains any day. Yet for others it is the wideness of the prairies that makes
them nervous. André Cardinal gave us the choice of two routes to follow: the south side of the Athabaska River where the trail is steep and treacherous, or the north side, where the trail is better, but there are two deep rivers to swim. The men chose the south side. There are more non-swimmers than swimmers.

  Evening

  Jasper House

  Never have I been so scared! All day we climbed up and up a steep, rocky trail with a sheer drop to the right of us. There was nothing to be seen but sky, a sight that made my heart flip and flop like a dying fish. Dumb old Talbot went right to the edge and looked over and told me to come and see, as the valleys were full of cornflowers and bluebells and Jasper House could be seen in the distance. I pretended an indifference, because my legs shook at the very thought of looking over that cliff! But I didn’t want Talbot to know that. I took hold of the ox’s tail, keeping well away from its feet, and let it pull me up. At places the trail was only a foot wide! The packs on the animals rubbed against the rock walls, making them stagger about until finally Mr. Blanchard’s horse missed its footing and hurtled down the trail on its back! It was a miracle that a tree broke its fall, as the drop is 900 feet! (Mr. Sellar told me that.) After watching that horse tumble, I thought perhaps it wiser to not hold onto the ox’s tail! I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see all that sky, but then I stumbled over a rock and it was only Henry grabbing my arm quickly that saved me from going over the edge. Finally I looked straight ahead and muttered prayers for the rest of the day, — something I don’t often do.