(HUGHENA MACK)
It all happened seven
years ago. We three girls had been pursuing the
lone Western trails for four months. We had come
from Ontario homes, which means that for all our years we had mingled on
terms of intimacy with apples, Toronto, school-trustees, church union, lady-like
people and cents. But of the world outside we
knew nothing, and we yearned with unspeakable yearnings.
What with these yearnings and the life of straight lines and squares,
which we were leading, we took on that lean and lofty look characteristic
of schoolteachers. So our parents, with one accord,
harkened to our importunities and allowed us to turn to Alberta, that teacher's
revivifier.
With considerable maneuvering,
two of us (Florence and myself) had acquired adjoining districts in a Scandinavian
settlement, in the newest of lands, but Ella, our third, was cast away in
the wilderness some twenty-eight miles from us.
And now four months had
elapsed - four months of thrills. Absolutely
everything was new. We had seen no native-born
Canadians, nothing even remotely resembling an apple, a cent of a lady-like
person. We had watched the children trapping
muskrats; had shivered at the blood-chilling call of the coyote; had been
lost all night on a strange trail, had seen the wonderful greening of the
world about us - the willow bluffs and fire swept prairie; had passed through
a rainy season, supporting millions of mosquitoes in the lap of luxury; had
been wooed in Norwegian, Dutch, Swedish and Bohemian fashion, and pronounced
them all good.
But as summer drew on
we began to realize that thrills were becoming rarer, that coffee four times
a day and 'furrinlangwitch' forever were losing their halo of novelty and
becoming prosaic facts, and that the wanderlust was creeping over us. Fate intervened in the shape of our two week's holidays.
There were several features
to be considered in our scheme of enjoyment. We
must reach Ella as immediately as possible; we possessed most limited funds,
and last, we must try to include Trouble. Trouble
was our pinto, our pink and white, purchased jointly by us on conditions
that Florence should have exclusive rights over the pink spots, while I should
guard and nourish the white. She had kind eyes. If she had been a woman, she weighed eighty pounds. All spring we had given her oats and peace, and we
began to take some pride in her bursts of sprightliness, though heaven knows,
she was ever averse to vulgar haste. However,
we could not enjoy ourselves without Trouble. So
we fastened on a scheme for driving as far as Ella's, and letting circumstances
shape our course after that.
Then I announced to my
mosquito-harassed flock that if they could produce for me a cart, becoming
to the fragile form of Trouble, holidays would be their reward. Illustrating my words by a blackboard drawing, I
felt sure of being understood. Sure enough next
day a cart was produced - a loan from two gallant Galician bachelors - hardly
the build for dainty Trouble, but too good to pass by.
Behold us, then, on the
first evening of holidays seated in a home-made Galician cart, suit cases
swathed in gunnysack and strapped on behind, sheepskin robe artistically
draped over certain deformities (in the cart), listening feverishly to Norwegian
directions regarding our route to the nearest village, fifteen miles away. Considering that the trail was absolutely old, our
venture was looked upon with concern, by our good Norwegian friends. But, obviously, Nort' Dakota's ways were not our
ways, so we were dismissed with gloomy warnings not to get lost in the 'ticket'.
The conditions for our
jaunt were perfect. The rainy season was just
over, leaving green scrub and green prairie as sweet as a new-bathed babe. The faint trail with the bluffs so close as to often
clasp overhead; the curving round a bluff to come suddenly upon a dainty
little lake, fit size for the scrub around it; the careless splash of the
wild duck, the whir of the partridge - and then perhaps an open stretch showered
with prairie rose and alive with gophers. It
was glorious. True, our progress was almost negative,
so slow it was. But at the worst, there were
only coyotes to fear. The nights were warm, and
our slogan was 'Nothing Matters'. So philosophically,
Florence and I crawled out of our cart and loyally walked beside our respective
spots.
As if in response to
our indifferent attitude, we found ourselves on a 'Main trail' and here our
pony showed unmistakable signs of life. With
ears back and a purposeful light I her eyes she turned into the trail at
a near trot. She was on familiar ground. Fearing to break the spell we hurled ourselves in
detached pieces into the cart and never so much as spoke till we drew rein
at the village. We entered just as the nine-o'clock
twilight was slipping into night. With pats of approval, we left Trouble
to the curiosity of the liveryman, and ourselves hiked to the hotel. After much mental strain, the superior wreck at the
desk decided that he had no accommodation for us, unless 'one of the boys'
resigned his room. Then to this room we were
shown. We felt uneasy at this introduction into
a town full of men and empty, almost, of women. But,
mustering courage, we reconnoitered the room. 'He's
a pretty decent chap', commented Florence. 'There
is a photograph of his father and mother, instead of a line-up of maidens
fair.' Curiosity took us across the lamp-lit
room, when a gasp of surprise proclaimed that Florence had made a discovery. 'Why, I know them - those old people', she said. The live in Glencoe, and we must be in Jack Brown's
room. I knew he was in the West some place'. It was unnerving to be twenty-five hundred miles
from home and to stumble thus unconventionally across a boy we had known
for years - unnerving but beautiful. So we again
approached the clerk with inquiries about Jack Brown.
'Oh, then and there was
hurrying to and fro', and a run on the barbershop, and mad flights down the
back alley to the laundry and a slamming of doors and then the formal introductions. For were we not girls from back East, and were we
not semi-youthful, and had we not by our arrival doubled the female population
of the town? Jack Brown introduced the town,
and we all knew someone that someone else knew, and it was a glorious reunion
for 'back-Easters'.
The old timers told us
of the early years when they trapped and traded with the Indians, of the
awful loneliness of that silent life on the long north trails. And they interspersed their telling with snatches
of Kippling, of Emerson, that had become a part of them in that lonely life.
The newcomers had not
yet been weaned from the East, and they wanted to talk of home, the home
team and the home girls. Ah, of the girls they
really wanted to talk! Scarcely a boy but had
left 'his girl' in the East, and to him as yet, the only really living day
of the week was mail day.
How that evening did fly. We sang songs that had been new two years before,
and Varsity songs, and were very happy. Never
had the town seen such an invasion of girls - tow and just from the East. The oldest inhabitant remembered one girl, six months
before, coming to town, but she was whisked into the wilderness before any
of the fellows could get a collar on.
In the morning we were
on the quivive to reach the street and view this first stopping place by daylight. To the casual glance all Western towns are the same
- front street facing the railway, or prospective railway (for the towns
appear long before the railroad is laid); sidewalks possessing every trait
of uncertainty, blossoming nobly where least expected, and utterly lacking
at critical
But our myriad men were
there, with beauteous shaves, waiting for the passing off the schoolteachers. It was a slow passing, withal a dignified. Down the main street we went, waving food-byes, and
off again in search of adventure.
Trouble walked. So Florence and I being disciplinarians only in necessity,
walked too. For the most part we strolled or
drove along in the shade, keeping always to the shadiest trail, hoping that
we were bearing ever to our long-lost sister. The
utter absence of shack or any landmark often left us in doubt. But on we went instinctively.
Sometimes we rested by the roadside, sometimes we struck a quicker
pace, leaving the leisurely Trouble to follow. But
over us, all was the lazy content of a midsummer day on an unworked land.
Toward afternoon we began
to look for signs of battle river, of hills and coulees.
And with the looking we found ourselves out upon the edge of a high
plain. Below us, far and away below, we could
see the winding river. The miles between us were
criss-crossed with every man's trails. On the
other side were plain and coulee. Old prospectors
had told us that this spot far from the beaten road of traffic was the prettiest
in all inhabited Alberta. And we were seeing
it for ourselves.
Away several miles along
our twisty trail we could see the tiny settlement of Duhamel, one of the
old trading posts of the West. Homesteads, too,
began to appear, with here and there a strip of cultivated land. Thoroughly in keeping with their setting were the
shyly curious French halfbreeds, whose desire seemed to be to see without
being seen. The girls were wonderfully pretty,
but the women looked toil-worn.
And now we were upon
Ella's stamping ground, and it behooved us to conduct ourselves soberly,
as befitted the school ma'am's friends. With burning
words we exhorted Trouble to buck up and to carry us through this all-seeing
village speedily. We emphasized our desire by
wild concentrated prods on the larboard of our steed.
In vain. We rumbled over the bridge full
into the fierce white light that beats upon all strangers.
A will mightier than ours haltd before the post office. And most disconcerting was the gray twinkly understanding
gaze of the post-master. He knew we suffered. But sternly we called for biscuits, mail and lemons. Then on we crawled, feeling the twinkly eyes and
the humorless eyes upon our rigid backs. But
soon the friendly hillside thrust itself out to cover our embarrassment. We rounded the curve, and straightway we forgot our
rage and lived in the new glories that were granted us.
The tail wound round
hill after hill or rather scallops off one big hill.
A narrow little trail it was, seeming to have 'just happened'. Below us was a creeks, pine-hidden and still. Even at noon it was dark down there - dark and cold
- and one quite believed that bears were seen in that very coulee. But above us stretched the sunshiny, friendly, rose-covered
slope.
We strolled on, munching
biscuits, 'hitting up' the lemons possessed by all sorts of vagrant impulses. Perhaps we might have succumbed to the call of shady
pine and distant water fall had we not heard a most un-Ontario shriek far
above us, and there waving wild arms and uttering wilder cries, was that
mad woman, Ella - the once stately Ella. An hour
before her eyes had been attracted by a strange group across the valley. Instinct had told her that it was her dear lost companions;
the field glass verified, and here she was.
We were glad to see her
of course, but much chagrined to realize that in all probability every field
glass for miles had been turned on us, watching our weird, uncanny moves. However, a tactful mention of ham and eggs restored
us to cheerfulness, and on we hurried.
Now, ham and eggs on
a hot July afternoon may not sound alluring, but when you have subsisted
for four weary months on strange, wild, doughy things and hash effects, achieved
by an old 'woman', who solaced herself in these menial tasks with a pipe
- then ham and eggs is a perfect fit.
So we left the valley
for the plains and were presented to Ella's friends, the Schneiders. The next hour must ever be a fragrant memory - real,
sure enough bread and wild strawberries and cream! Nothing
endears you to a housewife like a violent appetite.
I, myself, have won more friends by my undiscriminating appetite than
by any gentler graces.
So it was that by evening
we were established in the hearts of the Schneiders.
And in the evening to make stronger our foundation, we sang to them. Now, anyone who could ask us to sing must indeed
crave music. It is wonderful how they love it,
these Germans and Scandinavians! Every shack
has its banjo, guitar and violin, often home made. But
the prosperous Schneiders boasted an organ, bought on the chance that a passing
traveler might some time play to them. So Florence
played it and we sang all that we knew, and much that we didn't know. But best of all as the evening mellowed, the Germans
forgot our strangeness and softly started their own folk-songs, Florence
accompanying them falteringly, but successfully enough to leave them in a
mist of joy.
Later, when we turned
to future plans, and when Ella uttered a wail at not having had the fun of
a driving-walking tour with our Galician cart, old Jacob Schneider, strangely
softened by the music, offered to us his own horse, Jump, to be used as we
pleased, for walking with or driving behind.
Jump, it seemed, was
strong and eager. Indeed Jump did promise to
be an ideal companion. Ella had a friend twenty
miles to the southwest. About twenty miles further
on was the town of Lacombe, on the Calgary and Edmonton road. Once having reached Lacombe, we could plan further
adventure.
There was something so
haphazard about the scheme, in contrast to our well-ordered, down East vacations,
that it appealed to us. We retired to dream of
it. To be sure, we had to dream three in a bed. But when one has dreamt with thousands (a vulgar
horrible fact), three, and three only, isn't bad.
Next morning Jacob offered
us Jump, and all was settled. Every strap that
had clothed our Trouble had to be adjusted to its limit, for Jump was colossal.
So, haughtily, we set
forth, and as we came to the valley of our humiliation we looked at the twinkly
postmaster and we swept through his little one sided
village.
This time to reach the
plains we had to climb an almost perpendicular trail cut in the hillside. There was room, and just room, for our cart. On one side the ground dropped uncompromisingly to
the river; on the other the hill pressed close and loomed over us. So it was with a breath of relief that we came out
on top.
Ella did seem to be a
Jonah. We never could continue for long on the
right trail. Sometimes our gay career took us
to a cut bank, sometimes to the river, sometimes to a tiny shack, and sometimes
to a corral. But by these tokens we knew we were
wrong and back we turned to the last forking trail.
Nothing mattered. We were hearing the
call 'of the long white road to the far horizon's wall'.
At noon we halted at
a neat looking whitewashed homestead and a Scotch woman appeared, the Britisher's
rosiness betrayed her even before she spoke. Scones,
cheese and milk were instantly forthcoming. So
we rested and fed ourselves and our Jump. And
after drowsing away the hottest hour we turned again tot he road leaving
the Scotch woman to wonder what there could be in this big bare country to
excuse such daft-like proceedings. Now, if it
were bonnie Scotland!!
On we went the more deeply
marked trail and the occasional single-strand fence marking the approach
of civilization.
Sometimes tired with
looking at the world about us we drifted back to the other world we had known
- to school days, to first school experiences, to all that we had learned
and unlearned about children, to old 'half-forgotten, far off things.'
And just as the bluffs
began to grow hazy with evening's peace, we saw before us the imposing story
and a half house (surely a wonderful structure) of our friend. A formidable array, such as ours, would have paralyzed
an Eastern housewife, but it is the merest incident to an emergency-meeting
Westerner. So it was that our friend's welcome
was unfeignedly glad and sincere. And we rested
there.
Next day another twenty-mile
program was planned, and after that - still the dark.
We were now not twenty miles from the railroad and people were taking
on all sorts of metropolitan airs. We met them,
several people that day, all driving horses instead of the much-favored oxen. We asked them all if we were on the right trail,
just to hear them speak. Sometimes we listened
to the full-mouthed English tones, sometimes to Scotch, but most often to
straight Canadian or American. And we felt a
thrill of excitement as we drew near to the haunts of men.
But at the same time
the romance of the prairie was passing; the trails were degenerating into
fenced roads, the range was becoming fielded farms, the gumbo and the rough
lumber houses were yielding to gorgeously painted structures, sign boards
began to obstruct the view, and it took little Òdipping into the futureÓ
to see the day when telephone wires would infest the air, automobiles infest
the earth, and when bridge and party calls would rule with iron hand. It was a sad thought.
Lacombe was the usual
town, only it was reaching its second-tenth stage. Substantial
brick buildings were replacing the unpainted frame.
It was no doubt spoken of at local banquets as 'our thriving little
city'.
Again, we were fortunate
in finding our friends at home. Moreover, they
were equipped with a stable. And they opened
their house and their stable to us and our charger, and allowed our cart
to beautify their yard.
TO CALGARY WE GO
The only inspiration,
which Lacombe offered to us, was the much advertised holiday excursion to
Calgary. To Calgary, then, we would go, and to
Calgary we went.
The trains were jammed
till one wondered where all the people gathered from.
Every nationality rubbed shoulders and everyone glowed with an inward
purpose. But for us, we were going for the sidewalks
and the lights, and the novelty of being not 'the newcomer school ma'ams',
but three insignificant mites in a city full.
After several hours of
prosaic railway travel, we found ourselves being carried by the crowd out
upon the platform at Calgary. And at that time
there was in Canada probably no more conglomerate gathering of people than
was a daily feature of Calgary station.
Calgary is a city of lightening
changes, which even in our four months' knowledge of it had added to it's
stature. After depositing our grips (we had shed
our gunnysack at Lacombe) we were drawn irresistibly to the crowds down town. The tooting of horns, the clink of horses' feet,
the hurrying Western citizens, were fascinating. But
we felt a real understanding sympathy for the groups of 'new-comer' foreigners
who stood huddled together - dazed and dumb, utterly bereft of their fragments
of English speech. One wonders often how they
ever reach any place, but under that surface daze, must exist some rock-like
determination to be part of this life - a determination crowned with success. Ourselves, fresh from coyotes and the coffee mill,
could scarcely repress an inclination to turn and listen every time that
we heard English speech, to linger by the hurdy-gurdy and to fly the presence
of the motors. Our nerves were being sadly shattered,
so we repaired to pour a few libations upon the altar of city compensations,
and we joyed in the fresh pots as never before. Just
to live and move and have our being in a crowd of people was enough for us.
We found ourselves specially
interested in distinguishing the westerner from the man from the east. The easterner, well pressed, decorous, but perplexed,
had eyes for nothing so much as for the Indians. He
was looking for the red man of romance. Indians
gathered in from the reserves, from everywhere were there, blanketed, travised,
papoosed - everything as should be. No westerner
so much as vouchsafed a second glance. His eyes
were all for the 'barkers', the motors, the theatre, all civilization's products. Not for him the mock broncho busting contests (which
thrilled us), nor the Indian parades.
A couple of days spent
in shopping convinced us that unless we fled from the lure of the shops all
was lost. And as if in answer to our cry for
deliverance, on every side was lifted up posters, 'Excursion to Banff $2.50'. From Calgary we could descry the outlines of the
Rockies white against the sky. But here was an
opportunity to meet them face to face.
There are some phrases,
which everyone uses, or at least feels, upon entering the shadow of the Rockies
- first, the ranching foothill country brings involuntarily 'the cattle upon
a thousand hills'. And as we charge full into
those great gray walls, every soul feels with something of fear 'the everlasting
hills'. We had attained our wish - we were seeing
the mountains, but they were very stern, very rocky and very gray. We wished feebly for the placid friendliness of the
prairie.
This feeling was with
us as we dismounted at Banff, even as the fragrance of the pine filled valley
was wafted to us. But otherwise I think we thought
the scheduled thoughts. We sat on the hotel balcony
- a school-teachery hotel - and watched those sinister forms above us. We were subdued.
Next day was Sunday and
an important day, for we were to hear a church service in English, with perhaps
even psalms for good measure. For four months
we had gone faithfully to church as became 'newcomer school ma'ams' and listened
to hours of Norwegian singing, praying and preaching.
And now we, who were not ever thus, found ourselves actually anticipating
the Sunday service. That day was surely a 'red
tag in our patchwork quilt' of western life, for summering at Banff was one
of the greatest pulpit orators of Canada, who conducted service that day. We had our reward. We
sang inspiring psalms about hills, and the 'hill' spirit laid hold upon us.
Banff we found was very
much of a show place; points of interest were listed.
You were practically told where to have your thrills. The village was alive with finger signs. It made one feel like a tourist instead of a mere
wanderer. And we did want to get lost creditably
and found at our leisure, and to discover our own points of interest.
To be sure we did discover
certain unprinted joys - the bridal couples. For
Banff is to be the west what Niagara Falls was, in our parents' time. In varying stages, we saw them - the June brides
and grooms.
And we bathed that day. We record it not because of the bridal couples, nor
because of the bath, but because of the healing sulphur water in which we
bathed. If we had had the forethought to contract
rheumatism or a lengthy 'drunk' before these baths we might have felt better. But as there was really nothing about us that needed
careful boiling, and as we rashly boiled our hair as well, which is opposed
to the best interests of one's hair, we were not healed.
On the contrary, we went to the hotel and re-bathed our dear hair
in Christian water.
After more, but all too
few, glimpses of enchanting scenery, came the realization that our holidays
were on the wane. Back over our butte we must
go. Would the second impression be charm dispelling? As we crossed the rolling foothill country, we vowed
some time to walk or drive to Banff so that we might turn aside and see behind
those sleepy, velvet hills. It must be great
discipline for a curious woman to live amongst mountains and to never know
what is on the other side.
But we were glad, glad
of our friend the prairie. The mountains had
filled us with the terror that only a covenanting forefather might have inspired. But we extended the hand of fellowship to our own
prairies.
We tarried in Calgary
only a night. But we looked and listened in order
that we might carry back for the lonely hours, the tramp of feet, the glare
of lights, the casual glance and the noise - the dear noise.
And louder and more loud
came to our hearts, a pink and white call.
We found the noble Jump
anxious to be gone from the stir of Lacombe. So
off again we went. So careless were we and so
tri-minded as to landmarks that we were mostly on new trails. And we gossiped about the old friends whom we had
met and we learned much poetry about everlasting hills.
And all too soon we found ourselves at Schneider's door - arrived
there only Jump knew how.
Jump intact, was restored
to Jacob, while a wonderfully rejuvenated Trouble gave us a glad eye.
Next morning early we
bade Ella and German hospitality a regretful farewell, prepared to journey
our remaining twenty-eight miles.
Not far on our way, our
attention was attracted by the approach from a cross-trail of an Indian cavalcade. Several wagons there were, with Indians, squaws,
papooses and Indianettes. A dozen ponies ran
loose and countless dogs - all barking. They
gained upon us and we felt a qualm lest these great dogs should jump round
our airy cart and bite our sacred limbs. But
as the wagons turned out to pass, a change came over Trouble. At last, she was with her own, and a new soul entered
her. She champed her bit.
She darted into the center of the procession and whinnered for joy. With her own Indian companions she would stay.
Once when we were climbing
a steep slope, her staying powers were hard put to it.
She faltered. Seeing a notable feature
of his cavalcade weakening, one old bedaubled Indian crawled from his wagon
and, with awful grins at us seized Trouble's bridle.
A momentary fear that we were being kidnapped assailed us. But soon we blushed at the unworthy thought. With strange encouraging grunts, he renewed the pony,
and she 'dug in her toes and went more so'. With
another hideous grin, which we returned in kind, he remounted his wagon.
Ella's last sight of
us was as the central figure of the long procession.
Lost in the reminiscence with the ponies that trotted by her side,
Trouble did not realize her compromising burst of speed.
And it was no time until we forded the creek and swung into town. Down the main street we went, still holding our central
position, and very proud of our sensational return.
We saluted our friends, the white men, laconically and stolidly, as
became the friends of Indians. But after an exchange
of more hideous grins with our chief, we were obliged to forsake the cavalcade
and call a halt.
The white men were unpleasant
about our achievements. Some even suggested that
the Indians were a rescue part who had found us, like Lucy Gray of old, wandering
upon the lonesome wild. But the approved with
the plainsman's approval of our attitude toward mountains.
So an amicable spirit rested over all, once more.
But our most uncertain
piece of road was still to cover - just one shack on all that fifteen-mile
trail. Disdaining escort, for we wanted the glory
of a safe return for ourselves, we set forth to our own dear land of flaxen
hair and mazy trail.
It must have been our
'woman's instinct' which saved us, for we made no serious mistakes, and anyway,
as Florence observed, 'Twas better to be lost and found, than never to be
found at all'.
By sundown, we topped
a hill. A blessed hill!
It overlooked our boarding house. Like
debilitated eagles, we swooped down toward home. Even
now, the coyotes began their hungry chorus, and their stealthy forms came
sneaking from the bluffs. In defiance of them,
we heard the sharp bark of Shep, our cattle dog. Trouble
heard too and straight s a dart she flew over the range, needing no urging
now.
Next day, as the strange,
familiar Norwegian language floated around us and the voice of the coffee
mill was heard in the land we decided that this had been the most wonderfully
renewing holiday of our lives. We had laid up
for ourselves treasures, which would be ours forever.
Seven years of this western
drama have whirled by us, since this holiday, and things have come to pass
even as we feared.
That jabberwocky, the
real estate man, has gone up to our land to possess it.
Townsites dot the range. Our 'aggressive
railway policy' is checker-boarding the prairie. Remotest
Olsens have their telephones. All stages of advance
surge over each other.
Some there be who sit
in Byronic gloom and mutter ''Man marks the earth with ruin,' there is now
no real west.'
But only seven years
ago, in a now highly inhabited region, it was given to us to see our own
little bit of the 'real West'.