The Greatest Works of Emerson Hough – 19 Books in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). Emerson Hough
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get out and get the horses, young men,” said Uncle Dick, relentlessly, “and then back to breakfast while I make up the packs. You see those three peaks on ahead? Well, we’ve got to get on the other side of them just as soon as we can. We can’t afford to lose a minute at this time of the year, for the fords will be bad enough even as they are.”
When at length their little pack-train began its slow course up the valley of the Miette all the boys turned and looked behind them to say good-by to the great valley of the Athabasca, which had served them as a highway for so long. The excitement of their new adventures, however, kept them keyed up, and certainly the dangers of the trail were not inconsiderable.
The old pass of the traders now swung away from the river, now crossed high ridges, only to drop again into boggy creek-bottoms and side-hill muskeg. Several times they had to ford the Miette, no easy thing, and at other times small streams which came down from the mountains at the right also had to be crossed. The three white peaks ahead still served as landmarks, but it was not until the second day that they reached the flat prairie through which the Miette River now wandered, broken into many little channels. Even here they found the going very soft and difficult, now impeded by down timber, or again by a rushing torrent where the ford had to be selected with the utmost care. John and Jesse were tired by the end of their second day of this hard travel; and even Rob, muddy to his knees from wading bogs, was glad when at last their leader halted.
“It’s all right, boys,” said Uncle Dick. “I don’t want to drive you too hard, but I know perfectly well that every day counts with us now. We’ve got bad country on ahead as well as bad country behind us, and we must make it through before the spring floods are on. I suppose you’ve noticed that all the creeks are worse late in the afternoon? But I’ve waited at some of these little streams four and five days without being able to ford at all.”
They pushed on up through the open prairie-like country which now lay on about them, continually a panorama of mountains unfolding before them, all strange to them. An angle of the trail seemed to shut off all the valley of the Miette from them, so that they seemed in a different world.
“When will we get to the summit, Uncle Dick?” inquired Rob, after a time, as they halted at the edge of a wide green valley in whose deep grass for a time no running stream could be seen.
Uncle Dick smiled. “We’re at the summit now, you might say,” said he. “I knew you couldn’t tell when we got there.”
“This isn’t like the Peace River Pass at all,” said Rob; “it doesn’t look like a pass at all, but more like a flat prairie country.”
“Precisely — they call that the Dominion Prairie over yonder. But a mountain pass is rarely what it is supposed to be. Take the Tennessee Pass, for instance, down in Colorado; you’ll see a wide meadow with a dull creek running through it, something like this. The deep gorges and cañons are lower down in the mountains, not on top of them. What you see before you is the old Yellowhead Pass, and we are now almost at the highest point. The grade rises very little from here to the actual summit.”
“Well,” said John, “I never thought I’d be in a place like this in all my life. It seems a long way off from everywhere.”
“It comes near being the wilderness,” said his uncle. “Far north of us is the Peace River Pass, which you made last year. Just the other way is the Athabasca Pass. Yonder, south of us, is Mount Geikie, between us and the Athabasca. Over west is Mount Fitzwilliam, and across the lake from him is Yellowhead Mountain; that’s the one the early traders through here used to call Mount Bingley. And on every side of us there is all kinds of country where, so far as any one knows, no white man’s foot has ever trod. Northwest of the pass and north of here we don’t pretend to map the country, and not one mountain in ten has got its name yet. In short, we are in the wilderness here about as much as you’re apt to be in many a long day’s journey, no matter where you go.”
“And yet right out in there it looks like a farm meadow,” said Jesse, pointing to the green flats broken with willows and poplar mottes here and there.
“Beaver out there one time, no doubt,” said Uncle Dick, “and maybe even now; but sometime there will be farms in here. At least, this is the top of the mountains and the lowest pass in all the Rockies. I’ll show you the actual summit when we come to it.”
They sat for some time looking about them and allowing their horses to graze. All at once Rob broke the silence. “I’m going to be an engineer sometime,” said he. “I believe I’d like to do locating work in wild countries like this.”
“As for me,” said John, “I believe I’d rather stay in the office and make maps and things.”
“And I’m going to be a merchant,” said Jesse, “and I’ll ship things over your road when you get it built.”
“That reminds me,” said Uncle Dick, “you young men have not brought up your own map of the country we have crossed over. You are only using the maps that you could make or buy ready-made. Now, John, suppose you be official map-maker for the party and take your notes from day to day.”
“Pshaw! What do I know about making a map?” said John.
“Well, you can do as well as an Indian; and let me tell you an Indian can make a pretty good map with nothing but a stick and a smooth place in the sand.”
“How could I tell how far it was from one place to another?” inquired the newly elected map-maker.
“We can’t tell so very well, as we are now traveling. Of course, when engineers go out in a party they measure every mile by a chain, and know just how far they have come. The old trappers used to allow three or four miles an hour for their pack-horses in a country like this. Sometimes an engineer carries what is called a pedometer in his pocket, which tells him how far he has walked. Maybe you did not know that instrument was invented by Thomas Jefferson over a hundred years ago? Suppose you allow twenty or twenty-five miles a day, at most, for our travel. Now you have your compass, and, though you don’t try to put in every little bend in the trail or in the valley, you take the courses of all the long valleys and the general directions from one peak to another. Thus between your compass and your pack-train you will have to do the best you can with your map, because we have no scientific instruments to help us.”
“All right,” said John. “I’ll make my notes the best I can, and every night we’ll try to bring up the map. It’ll be fine to have when we get back home to show our folks, won’t it?”
“Well, I’ll help you all I can,” said Uncle Dick. “You remember the two big streams that run into the Miette back of us, where we made the fourth ford of the Miette? Well, that is just about eight miles from the Athabasca River. If we had not lost so much time with the horses bogging down we ought to have been in here yesterday instead of to-day, for now we are at Deer Creek, and that is only fourteen miles in a straight line from the Athabasca. This prairie between the forks of Deer Creek is called Dominion Prairie. The valley is soft and marshy for a couple of miles beyond the Dominion Prairie, as you can see from the way the trail runs over the edges of the ridges. The grade is a little bit steeper for three miles west of Dominion Prairie. The width of the marsh or meadow in here is about half a mile to a mile. At the last crossing of the Miette, three miles west of Dominion Prairie, the Miette is just a little stream with many branches. Now note very well the last one of these branches. That points out the true summit of Yellowhead Pass. Perhaps this very summer, if there is high water, some of the drainage water will run west from this marsh into the Fraser River, while some of it will run east into the Miette and the Athabasca.”
“Then how far have we come up the Miette all together, Uncle Dick?” inquired John, his pencil in his mouth.
“Only about seventeen miles, but they have been rather hard ones. We have climbed about four hundred feet all together in total elevation, but a great deal more than that if we count all the little ridges we have crossed over. Now do you think you can get your directions from your compass and make your map from these figures?”
“I’ll try my best,” said John.