The Greatest Works of Emerson Hough – 19 Books in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). Emerson Hough
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rate, whoever the original Tête Jaune was, we are bound now for his old bivouac on the Fraser, fifty miles below, the Tête Jaune Cache.
“Every man who wants to do mountain exploring has heard of the Tête Jaune Cache on the Fraser River. It has been one of the most inaccessible places in the Rockies. But now it will be easy to get there in a year or so, and I am sure on this beautiful Yellowhead Lake just ahead of us somebody will put up a hotel one day or other, and they will make trails around in these mountains and kill all these goats and bear.”
“How far is it down to the lake?” inquired Jesse, pushing up his riding-pony alongside the others.
“About half an hour,” replied his uncle. “Not too good a trail, and about a hundred feet drop from the summit down.”
Surely enough, they had gone but a little distance over the winding and difficult blazed route when they came out into an open spot whence they could see Yellowhead Lake lying before them. It was a lovely sheet of water about four miles long, with bold mountains rising on either side.
“Now, young men,” said their leader, as they paused, “we’ll not take the liberties with these mountains that some of the earlier travelers did. We’ll call that big mountain on the south side of the lake Mount Fitzwilliam. On the north side is old Bingley, but I presume we’d just as well call it Yellowhead Mountain now. Some called it Mount Pelee, but we’ll call it Yellowhead, because it seems too bad the pass and mountain should not have the same name from the same man — whoever he was. That’s the guardian of the pass from this side, at any rate. It looks as though it shut up the pass, because, you see, it bends around the foot of the mountain. I’ve climbed that mountain in my time — none too easy a job. In that way you can see the headwaters of the Fraser River, and glaciers twenty miles south of here. From the top of Yellowhead you can see Mount Geikie, although we are past it now.”
“When are we going to do our fishing?” inquired John, in his practical fashion.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” said his uncle; “if you’ll be good and travel steadily, we’ll make camp at the side of this lake and fish this afternoon.”
“Agreed,” said John; “go ahead.”
They found it not so easy to go ahead as might have been supposed, for the trail passed through some very rough and troublesome country, made the worse by burned timber which had blown down. At last, however, they made their way along the northwest shore and neared the narrows at the lower end of the lake. Here they found a low peninsula jutting out into the lake, where there was a little grass and good clean footing as well as the fine shade of some tall pines.
“Here we are,” said the leader of the party; and soon they had off-saddled and the horses were grazing, while the others prepared for the bivouac.
“Now, if we had a boat,” said Rob, “I believe we would get some trout in this lake, and good ones, too.”
“They’re here, all right,” said Uncle Dick, “as I can testify, but boats don’t grow in the Rocky Mountains this high up. You’ll have to try it from the shore.”
“But could we not make a raft? I see some pretty good cedar timber lying along here. And I’ve got some hay-wire in my war-bag — I never travel without it.” Rob was eager.
“And a very good thing it is to have in camp, too. Well, try your raft if you like, but be careful.”
All three of the young Alaskans, more experienced than most boys of their age in outdoor work, now fell at the task of making themselves a raft or float. Soon they had half a dozen cedar logs lying side by side in the shallow water, their limbs trimmed off closely with the axes. Under Rob’s instructions they now lashed two crosspieces on top of the logs, using the wire to bind them fast to each. So in the course of half an hour they had quite a substantial raft ready for use. Securing a couple of long poles to use as push-poles, they set boldly out into the shallow bay that lay before them. They took only one rod along, assigning to John the task of doing the angling while the others endeavored to keep the raft steady.
“This is as far as we can go,” said Rob after a while. “Fifteen feet of water, and my pole won’t touch any longer.”
“Well, it looks fishy,” said John. “Hold on, fellows, and I’ll begin to cast.”
He did so, standing as best he could on the uncertain footing under which the green water, clear as glass, showed the sandy bottom plainly below them. Ordinarily it would have been impossible to catch trout in water so clear, but the trout of the Yellowhead Lake at that time were hungry and unskilled. Therefore John had hardly cast a dozen times before he saw a great splash and felt a heavy tug at his line. As a matter of fact, a four-pound rainbow had taken the fly.
“My, he’s a whopper!” said John, as he struck, and endeavored to stop the first rush of the big fish.
But he scarcely finished his last words, for as he stepped back in his excitement, his foot slipped on the wet bark of one of the logs, and over he went backward into the deep green water underneath!
It happened so quickly that neither Rob nor Jesse for the moment could understand it. They could see their companion clearly in the water, struggling and twisting as he went down, and surrounded on all sides by a mass of white bubbles, which almost obscured him from view.
“Look out, there!” cried Uncle Dick, from shore, who had seen it all perfectly. At the same time he cast off his coat and was tugging at his shoes, making ready to swim out.
But just at that time the head and face of John appeared above the surface, his face distorted with fright and discomfort. He struck out boldly for the raft just at the instant when Rob held out to him the end of the push-pole.
“Catch hold of this, John,” said he, quietly.
An instant later the puffing swimmer was at the raft.
“Look out now,” said Rob; “don’t swamp us. Just lie there till I get you in.”
“It’s cold!” exclaimed John; and, indeed, his teeth were chattering with the cold of the icy mountain water.
“All right, we’ll be in in a minute,” said Rob; and he began poling the raft toward shore as rapidly as he could. They were not out fifty yards, but it seemed an age before the raft reached shore — or, rather, reached the outstretched hands of Uncle Dick, who stood shoulder-deep in the water waiting for them.
“I was afraid of that raft,” said he, “but it’s lucky it was no worse. Come here, John.”
“It wasn’t the fault of the raft, sir,” chattered John. “I just got foolish and slipped off. I’m all right. Where’s my fish?”
Surely enough, they turned to the other end of the raft; where they saw John’s rod fast between two logs, where the reel held it firmly. All the line was run out, but when Jesse reached out and brought in the rod he felt a surge at the other end which told that the fish was still on.
“Let me have him,” said John. “I’m just going to get even with him if I can, and take him out of the wet, too.”
Much relieved at seeing him so plucky and at finding him now safe, the others roared with laughter as he stood, wet and shivering, at the edge of the beach, fighting his big trout for several minutes before he could get him in. But at last victory rested with the skilful young angler, and Uncle Dick with a piece of coffee-sacking scooped out the big rainbow as he came inshore.
“Well, there,” said he, “is fish enough for supper. Now, John, go and strip and wring your clothes and dry out by the fire. I think maybe that’ll be fish enough for a while. We’re lucky to get the fish, and lucky to get you, too, for it’s no joke to go overboard in water as cold as that.”
“You can just bet it isn’t!” said John, his face now almost blue with cold, although he was beginning to revive in the warm rays of the sun. “Just for that, I am going to eat that fish — or as much of him as I can.”