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A Mendicant Snake
Scanty Fare.—A Mendicant Snake.—Embarkation on Henry
River—Joy of the Voyageurs.-Arrival at Snake River.—Rapids and
Breakers.—Beginning of Misfortunes.—Snake Encampments.—Parley With a
Savage.—A Second Disaster.— Loss of a Boatman.—The Caldron Linn.
WHILE the canoes were in preparation, the hunters
ranged about the neighborhood, but with little success. Tracks of
buffaloes were to be seen in all directions, but none of a fresh
date. There were some elk, but extremely wild; two only were killed.
Antelopes were likewise seen, but too shy and fleet to be
approached. A few beavers were taken every night, and salmon trout
of a small size, so that the camp had principally to subsist upon
dried buffalo meat.
On the 14th, a poor, half-naked Snake Indian, one of that forlorn
caste called the Shuckers, or Diggers, made his appearance at the
camp. He came from some lurking-place among the rocks and cliffs,
and presented a picture of that famishing wretchedness to which
these lonely fugitives among the mountains are sometimes reduced.
Having received wherewithal to allay his hunger, he disappeared, but
in the course of a day or two returned to the camp, bringing with
him his son, a miserable boy, still more naked and forlorn than
himself. Food was given to both; they skulked about the camp like
hungry hounds, seeking what they might devour, and having gathered
up the feet and entrails of some beavers that were lying about,
slunk off with them to their den among the rocks.
By the 18th of October, fifteen canoes were completed, and on the
following day the party embarked with their effects; leaving their
horses grazing about the banks, and trusting to the honesty of the
two Snakes, and some special turn of good luck for their future
recovery.
The current bore them along at a rapid rate; the light spirits of
the Canadian voyageurs, which had occasionally flagged upon land,
rose to their accustomed buoyancy on finding themselves again upon
the water. They wielded their paddles with their wonted dexterity,
and for the first time made the mountains echo with their favorite
boat songs.
In the course of the day the little squadron arrived at the
confluence of Henry and Mad Rivers, which, thus united, swelled into
a beautiful stream of a light pea-green color, navigable for boats
of any size, and which, from the place of junction, took the name of
Snake River, a stream doomed to be the scene of much disaster to the
travellers. The banks were here and there fringed with willow
thickets and small cotton-wood trees. The weather was cold, and it
snowed all day, and great flocks of ducks and geese, sporting in the
water or streaming through the air, gave token that winter was at
hand; yet the hearts of the travellers were light, and, as they
glided down the little river, they flattered themselves with the
hope of soon reaching the Columbia. After making thirty miles in a
southerly direction, they encamped for the night in a neighborhood
which required some little vigilance, as there were recent traces of
grizzly bears among the thickets.
On the following day the river increased in width and beauty;
flowing parallel to a range of mountains on the left, which at times
were finely reflected in its light green waters. The three snowy
summits of the Pilot Knobs or Tetons were still seen towering in the
distance. After pursuing a swift but placid course for twenty miles,
the current began to foam and brawl, and assume the wild and broken
character common to the streams west of the Rocky Mountains. In fact
the rivers which flow from those mountains to the Pacific are
essentially different from those which traverse the prairies on
their eastern declivities. The latter, though sometimes boisterous,
are generally free from obstructions, and easily navigated; but the
rivers to the west of the mountains descend more steeply and
impetuously, and are continually liable to cascades and rapids. The
latter abounded in the part of the river which the travellers were
now descending. Two of the canoes filled among the breakers; the
crews were saved, but much of the lading was lost or damaged, and
one of the canoes drifted down the stream and was broken among the
rocks.
On the following day, October 21st, they made but a short distance
when they came to a dangerous strait, where the river was compressed
for nearly half a mile between perpendicular rocks, reducing it to
the width of twenty yards, and increasing its violence. Here they
were obliged to pass the canoes down cautiously by a line from the
impending banks. This consumed a great part of a day; and after they
had reembarked they were soon again impeded by rapids, when they had
to unload their canoes and carry them and their cargoes for some
distance by land. It is at these places, called "portages," that the
Canadian voyageur exhibits his most valuable qualities; carrying
heavy burdens, and toiling to and fro, on land and in the water,
over rocks and precipices, among brakes and brambles, not only
without a murmur, but with the greatest cheerfulness and alacrity,
joking and laughing and singing scraps of old French ditties.
The spirits of the party, however, which had been elated on first
varying their journeying from land to water, had now lost some of
their buoyancy. Everything ahead was wrapped in uncertainty. They
knew nothing of the river on which they were floating. It had never
been navigated by a white man, nor could they meet with an Indian to
give them any information concerning it. It kept on its course
through a vast wilderness of silent and apparently uninhabited
mountains, without a savage wigwam upon its banks, or bark upon its
waters. The difficulties and perils they had already passed made
them apprehend others before them, that might effectually bar their
progress. As they glided onward, however, they regained heart and
hope. The current continued to be strong; but it was steady, and
though they met with frequent rapids, none of them were bad.
Mountains were constantly to be seen in different directions, but
sometimes the swift river glided through prairies, and was bordered
by small cotton-wood trees and willows. These prairies at certain
seasons are ranged by migratory herds of the wide-wandering buffalo,
the tracks of which, though not of recent date, were frequently to
be seen. Here, too, were to be found the prickly pear or Indian fig,
a plant which loves a more southern climate. On the land were large
flights of magpies and American robins; whole fleets of ducks and
geese navigated the river, or flew off in long streaming files at
the approach of the canoes; while the frequent establishments of the
painstaking and quiet-loving beaver showed that the solitude of
these waters was rarely disturbed, even by the all-pervading savage.
They had now come near two hundred and eighty miles since leaving
Fort Henry, yet without seeing a human being, or a human habitation;
a wild and desert solitude extended on either side of the river,
apparently almost destitute of animal life. At length, on the 24th
of October, they were gladdened by the sight of some savage tents,
and hastened to land and visit them, for they were anxious to
procure information to guide them on their route. On their approach,
however, the savages fled in consternation. They proved to be a
wandering band of Shoshonies. In their tents were great quantities
of small fish about two inches long, together with roots and seeds,
or grain, which they were drying for winter provisions. They
appeared to be destitute of tools of any kind, yet there were bows
and arrows very well made; the former were formed of pine, cedar, or
bone, strengthened by sinews, and the latter of the wood of
rosebushes, and other crooked plants, but carefully straightened,
and tipped with stone of a bottle-green color.
There were also vessels of willow and grass, so closely wrought as
to hold water, and a seine neatly made with meshes, in the ordinary
manner, of the fibres of wild flax or nettle. The humble effects of
the poor savages remained unmolested by their visitors, and a few
small articles, with a knife or two, were left in the camp, and were
no doubt regarded as invaluable prizes.
Shortly after leaving this deserted camp, and reembarking in the
canoes, the travellers met with three of the Snakes on a triangular
raft made of flags or reeds; such was their rude mode of navigating
the river. They were entirely naked excepting small mantles of hare
skins over their shoulders. The canoes approached near enough to
gain a full view of them, but they were not to be brought to a
parley.
All further progress for the day was barred by a fall in the river
of about thirty feet perpendicular; at the head of which the party
encamped for the night.
The next day was one of excessive toil and but little progress: the
river winding through a wild rocky country, and being interrupted by
frequent rapids, among which the canoes were in great peril. On the
succeeding day they again visited a camp of wandering Snakes, but
the inhabitants fled with terror at the sight of a fleet of canoes,
filled with white men, coming down their solitary river.
As Mr. Hunt was extremely anxious to gain information concerning his
route, he endeavored by all kinds of friendly signs to entice back
the fugitives. At length one, who was on horseback, ventured back
with fear and trembling. He was better clad, and in better
condition, than most of his vagrant tribe that Mr. Hunt had yet
seen. The chief object of his return appeared to be to intercede for
a quantity of dried meat and salmon trout, which he had left behind;
on which, probably, he depended for his winter's subsistence. The
poor wretch approached with hesitation, the alternate dread of
famine and of white men operating upon his mind. He made the most
abject signs, imploring Mr. Hunt not to carry off his food. The
latter tried in every way to reassure him, and offered him knives in
exchange for his provisions; great as was the temptation, the poor
Snake could only prevail upon himself to spare a part; keeping a
feverish watch over the rest, lest it should be taken away. It was
in vain Mr. Hunt made inquiries of him concerning his route, and the
course of the river. The Indian was too much frightened and
bewildered to comprehend him or to reply; he did nothing but
alternately commend himself to the protection of the Good Spirit,
and supplicate Mr. Hunt not to take away his fish and buffalo meat;
and in this state they left him, trembling about his treasures.
In the course of that and the next day they made nearly eight miles;
the river inclined to the south of west, and being clear and
beautiful, nearly half a mile in width, with many populous
communities of the beaver along its banks. The 28th of October,
however, was a day of disaster. The river again became rough and
impetuous, and was chafed and broken by numerous rapids. These grew
more and more dangerous, and the utmost skill was required to steer
among them. Mr. Crooks was seated in the second canoe of the
squadron, and had an old experienced Canadian for steersman, named
Antoine Clappine, one of the most valuable of the voyageurs. The
leading canoe had glided safely among the turbulent and roaring
surges, but in following it, Mr. Crooks perceived that his canoe was
bearing towards a rock. He called out to the steersman, but his
warning voice was either unheard or unheeded. In the next moment
they struck upon the rock. The canoe was split and overturned. There
were five persons on board. Mr. Crooks and one of his companions
were thrown amidst roaring breakers and a whirling current, but
succeeded, by strong swimming, to reach the shore. Clappine and two
others clung to the shattered bark, and drifted with it to a rock.
The wreck struck the rock with one end, and swinging round, flung
poor Clappine off into the raging stream, which swept him away, and
he perished. His comrades succeeded in getting upon the rock, from
whence they were afterwards taken off.
This disastrous event brought the whole squadron to a halt, and
struck a chill into every bosom. Indeed they had arrived at a
terrific strait, that forbade all further progress in the canoes,
and dismayed the most experienced voyageur. The whole body of the
river was compressed into a space of less than thirty feet in width,
between two ledges of rocks, upwards of two hundred feet high, and
formed a whirling and tumultuous vortex, so frightfully agitated as
to receive the name of "The Caldron Linn." Beyond this fearful
abyss, the river kept raging and roaring on, until lost to sight
among impending precipices.
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Astoria; Or Anecdotes Of An Enterprise Beyond The
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